6 posts tagged “cassandre”
Cassandre lost a tooth at fish camp and came home with it in her pocket. Juju lost her second tooth today. Which makes it a busy week for the tooth fairy and it's costing me a bundle.
I have a checkered career as a tooth fairy. I don't make a very good Easter Bunny or Valentine, either. Thankfully I'm not a bad Santa Claus or there'd be no good holiday around here. It's not hard to be a good Santa as long as you bring presents. While the job sometimes requires assembly, it also requires cookies and milk. It's hard to complain about cookies and milk even at 2am on Christmas Eve.
But to be a tooth fairy requires skill.
The first is memory, something that fades over time, just when you need it the most. Not only do you have to remember that there is a tooth under a pillow somewhere, but you have to remember it during the day so you are sure to have $5 in hand for later. Then you have to remember again that night, after the little children and your obligations have you exhausted and wishing only for sleep. Finally you have to remember which child actually lost the tooth.
You need cat-like stealth. Children who have lost a tooth do not sleep soundly. They are determined to catch the tooth fairy in the act and make sure that, contrary to what their friends have said, the tooth fairy is not you. Any movement, like say a hand sweeping under their pillow looking for a tooth or leaving money, is likely to rouse them from a dead sleep.
Which leads to stamina. In order not to be caught you will have to stay up late, because little children who have lost a tooth cannot be trusted to sleep, even when they look like they're sleeping. They close their eyes and fake it so they can finally witness the magical exchange of teeth for money.
You need to be creative in order to answer questions like "Why does the tooth fairy want MY teeth anyway? What does she DO with them?" Later the questions get tougher: "Why do you have teeth in your jewelry box? Whose tooth IS that? IS IT MINE?" That's right, little children love to snoop and little girl children love nothing more than to snoop in their mama's jewelry box.
Last night's tooth fairy mission was a total FAIL. Cassandre put her tooth under her pillow and the tooth fairy forgot to come. Cassandre woke up, grabbed the tooth, wiggled it at me and announced with a big smile "You owe me five bucks." Underneath that statement was the understanding that Juju could never find out the truth. I say when you're old enough to blackmail the tooth fairy you're old enough to do laundry and get a real job.
Tonight the stakes are even higher than usual. First because of the previous night's failure, and also because Juju did a test run with the tooth fairy last night in the form of a written tattle. She left a note for the tooth fairy letting her know that her friend Midori left a paper cutout of a tooth under her pillow and the tooth fairy left money for her the next morning. This has offended Juju's sense of right and wrong and her note said:
Dear Tooth Fairy,
Do you know that Midori tricked you?
From Juliette
This morning Juju awoke to a note from the tooth fairy effectively telling her (nicely) to mind her own business. This afternoon the tooth that's been dangling from her gum finally fell out.
Wish me luck.
She wants me to go with her to the ladies room. We don't hold hands and she walks ahead of me, but she is not quite ready to go to a strange bathroom by herself. She still wants her mama.
We enter the stalls side by side. Now eleven, she is too grown up to share one with me. I can see her shoes under the dividing wall. White, strappy sandals with just the right amount of bling. Silver paint that looks like rhinestones.
I look at her feet, they are getting so big. She needed new sneakers the other day and we found out exactly how big: she's a size 4.
Only one and half sizes away.
Not from me, I'm a seven and a half, but one and half sizes from being able to shop in the big girl shoe department. My department. I know exactly how she feels because when I was her age, maybe even before I was her age, I felt the same way. Lusting after the big girl shoes.
The big girl shoe department is the Emerald City of department stores. Everything there is beautiful. High heels. Strappy sandals. Boots. Leather that smells deliciously grown up. Nothing that can be tied with laces, or more currently, nothing with velcro (the kids don't tie much anymore).
I look at her feet under the stall. Her pedicure, the one her grandmother gave her, has grown out, and her toenails are a little too long and slightly ragged. Shod in her strappy white sandals her feet look a little ambiguous. The shoes and the size are at a stage where it's not obvious: is she a child trying to be a grown up or is she a woman with dicey taste in shoes?
I know the truth of course, but she would love the idea that others might not know. That they might mistake her for a woman. She wants to pass. Not because boys or men would notice her (she hates boys and men make her uncomfortable) but because she wants to be big. She thinks she's ready for more even if she's not clear about more of what. Truthfully, she's not even sure why it's important to be big. It just is.
I understand this and I try not to do anything to dissuade her feelings. We walk casually by Emerald City together and I let her dream, just like I still dream, but not for too long. I'm not ready yet, it is too soon. I want to hold her hand. I want to take her hand and go upstairs to the little girl shoe department. I revel in the (increasingly rare) moments when she curls up into my lap like a child and holds on to my waist with both hands. For now we walk casually and we point out the shoes we dream of and won't buy today.
These are the in-between days. They won't last nearly as long as I want them to.
I have one and a half sizes left.
Now that Cassandre and her friends are all online they send the craziest stuff to each other. For a while they were sending these awful chain letters and I had to explain to Cassandre that no one would get hurt, she would not get her wish nor would she get rich (or go broke) in five days if she did not forward the awful letters to 16 gajillion of her friends within 48 hours. Happily that phase is over and now they are sending other, funnier stuff. I wish I could embed this below, but you'll have to click the link.
I know you don't clean your screen very often and it's really hard to clean the inside of it, so here
"You'll do all the talking, right?"
Cassandre and I were at the airport, walking from the parking lot to the main terminal for her first plane ride alone. This was a beta test, more for me than for her. She wants to go to France with her classmates this year and before I can send her overseas without us, I thought I'd try something a little closer and a lot safer: my sister's house in Colorado.
I should have allowed more time at the airport. SFO takes at least an hour for domestic flights under the best of circumstances and sending an unaccompanied minor across state lines does not qualify as the best circumstances.
We were told to wait over there.
At first I thought "over there" might be a good place to wait since there were only two people in line ahead of us. But it turned out that this was the line you stand in when you're totally screwed and all hope is gone (AKA "Paper Tickets"). After 10 minutes we hadn’t moved an inch. Cassandre started to fret.
A guy came rushing up to the line carrying bags and saying he had a flight at 10:45 and can he "cut the line?" I was first in line at this point and I told him sincerely that I was sorry, but no. We have a flight to catch too and a child to get through a bunch of red tape (oh yeah and security). "Is your flight at 10:45?" he asked in that "you are a total bitch" tone of voice. "No, it's at 11:07."
He glowered. The guy behind me (a saint) offered to trade places with him and replaced him at the back of the line. I didn't feel good about saying no, but I also knew there wasn't a chance in hell this guy was going to make his flight and there was still a chance in hell that Cassandre could make hers. Frankly I didn't want to have to think about how much more red tape I would have to go through to get her on standby.
After 20 minutes the staff brilliantly decided to combine the two lines into a single line and when a United staffer asked "who is first?" the woman at the head of the other line said it was her. This was not true. While she was still wandering around outside the ribbons trying to figure out if this was even her line, we walked past her and got in it. I looked at her and she said "I'm trying to catch an 11o'clock flight" I said "We are too and I have an unaccompanied minor to get through." She touched my arm as if she understood and then said "As long as we both agree that I was here before you." I gave her the exact same look you would have and said "Uh ok." If that's what it takes, I can tell the crazy lady that she was "first" even if it's not true.
Except no.
The staffer came back and looked directly at the crazy lady. Instead of pointing to me she handed him her ticket and started telling her story with "they tell me this shouldn't be a big problem but…"
10 minutes later we still hadn't moved.
A voice of authority boomed out "why are you here?" She interrogated each person in turn and gave them all instructions "You're in the wrong line. Go over there. You have to wait here." The guy behind me asked if he can still make his flight and she said in her most definitive voice "No."
"Fuck!" He shouted.
"Sir, I have a little one here, please watch your language." As I turned to look at the woman, I realized she meant us. She looked at me next, "Why are you here?" I explained our story. "You're in the wrong line, come with me."
And that is when Ms. B.D. Miller saved our skins and made my day. Director of Services, she filled out our paperwork herself, got someone to take Cassandre's bag, tapped the computer with authority and generally kicked ass all around us. Telling jokes all the while. She said "humor is all we have around here."
She gave me pieces of paper to show that they were taking official possession of Cassandre. Printed on one of the papers was: "Thanks for trusting us, the people you can't even trust with your luggage, with your precious child. We'll do our best to keep track of her. Sign here." Ok, maybe it wasn't worded exactly like that, but the note did thank me for my trust and raise to light the irony of trusting the airline with something as precious and irreplaceable as my girl. I'm not sure this is the effect the marketing people had in mind.
Time was running out when, miracle of miracles, Ms. Miller finished up the paperwork and attached a pin to Cassandre's chest. She hustled us over to security, cut the line for us and waved goodbye. Running to the gate, we made it in time to sit and wait. Because the plane had been delayed.
The woman at the gate told us that Cassandre would board last but in fact she was the first person called. Upon hearing her name Cassandre leapt out of her chair and hurried to the front of the line. I kissed the top of her head as she ran away from me and was lucky that the flight attendant who escorted her was nice enough to remind her that she might want to say goodbye to her mom. She turned halfway, waved her arm quickly and then walked determinedly down the jetway. She never looked back. I know because I stood there watching until she was gone.
"Ma'am? Ma'am! You're about to be run over by a bunch of airline passengers. You should get out of the way now."
After she boarded the plane I sat in a chair, stared at the plane and cried. I was so proud of her independence and the emotion of the moment was just a little too much for me. I sat there until they pushed away from the gate, then called my sister to announce that Cassandre was on her way.
When I was pregnant and dreaming of my girl I made little lists in my head of the things I wanted her to inherit from me, along with the things I hoped she wouldn't get.
The list of "good" things was not very long but I did hope she would get my green eyes. These eyes are also my mother's eyes and my sister's eyes and I liked the idea of passing them on. I like that our eye color is so changeable. Sometimes they're blue, other times bright green - especially if we've been crying.
Of course genetics don't listen to wishes and my girl's eyes came out the most beautiful shade of brown, just like her father's.
One thing on my list not to pass along was my extreme reaction to physical trauma - especially if it involves blood. I've had this problem all of my life and it is out of character with the rest of my take-no prisoners personality. Despite lots of internal pep talks, the net result of many minor to moderate injuries has been me fainting. One time a nurse was taking my blood and not only did I pass out, but as a bonus I went into convulsions.
That is not to say that I'm not good in an emergency, I am. During the time of the emergency, when every thing/one is chaotic and panicking, I shine. If no one is taking charge, I take charge. If someone has taken charge I ask them for orders or start taking on jobs. I'm good this way. If you need a ride to the hospital, or a tourniquet, ask me.
The problem comes after the adrenaline has worn off. Once the emergency is over, when everyone is safe and sound, the realization of what I have just seen or done kicks in and I pass out.
Once Xav decided to prune our palm tree with a machete. Before I knew it, he'd put a nine inch palm frond through his finger next to the bone. I wrapped up his hand, drove him to the hospital and took care of everything. I waited until he was admitted and in good hands. I sat on the floor under his gurney listening to the scrape, scrape scrape of scalpel against bone.
And then the bees came.
The bees are my early warning system that I am going away for a while. They start faintly in the background and as they get louder my vision turns to tunnel and before you know it, I'm out. I know the symptoms well enough now to sit down ahead of time, but by the time I can hear the bees I've usually lost the ability to speak. Sometimes I can whisper something lame like "I'm going to..." but not always.
This is not a quality I wanted to pass to my kids.
The other day Cassandre and Juju were rough housing (as usual) when Juju played too hard (as usual) and jumped up and hit her really hard head under Cassandre's chin. Bam! Cassandre bit her tongue and started crying (as usual).
She came into my room and at first I didn't take her seriously. Crying is a tactic of hers to both get attention for herself and to get her sister into trouble and I've learned to take her tears with a grain (or a handful) of salt.
I advised her to calm down, to take a drink of water and to show me her injury. Her tongue was bleeding and there was a visible booboo, but she wasn't able to spit enough blood (despite lots of trying) to make me worry. I informed her with a smile that the tongue heals faster than any other part of the body and that by tomorrow she'll hardly notice a thing.
She looked at herself in the mirror and stuck her tongue out to examine her injury. The next thing I knew she had dropped my ceramic cup into the sink with a loud clang. I started to scold her for being careless when I realized that the rest of her body was crumbling in front of me.
I caught her just before she hit the sink.
I called Xav for help and together we carried her back to our bed. We raised her feet on pillows and put a cool cloth on her forehead. She started mumbling like she was waking up and slowly came to. We made her stay on the bed for a few more minutes but soon she was able to get up and walk around. She was hungry and wanted breakfast. By the time we were finished eating she was completely back to normal so we got in the car and I drove her to school.
On the ride to school I asked her what she felt/saw/heard as she was passing out and she told me about hearing the buzzing.
The bees came for her too.
Even though it adds at least 45 minutes to my commute, I love taking my kids to school. Yes, they're always late. Yes, there is lots of drill-sargent shouting to "hurry up and GET DRESSED." Yes there are often tears as we all stress over what shoes to wear. But fundamentally I love the quality time in the car when we talk, sing or just hang out together.
For the last two weeks we've been listening to Justin Timberlake's CD and we know many of the lyrics to Summer Love ("I can't wait to fall in luuuuuuuv...with you. You can't wait to fall in luuuuuuuv with me. This just can't be summer luuuuuuuv, you'll see...")
But today I declined the JT requests in favor of good old fashioned radio. To make it seriously old fashioned I put on KFOG (classic rock) - just in time to hear the opening strains of Marc Cohn's Walking in Memphis. I really love this song. I have such a vivid memory of listening to it, driving down the streets of Paris, thinking how wonderfully strange it was to hear this kind of song on Paris radio. I never can predict what the French are going to like and that's one of the things I like about them.
Anyway, hearing it this morning put me in a great mood and I started to sing along with it. My kids are used to this and were nice enough not to make fun of me until...
Cassandre: "What did you say?"
Me: "What?"
Cassandre "What did you just sing?"
Me: "Walking in Memphis"
And just as I'm about to explain how the song is really about how certain places can make you happy, and how just walking down the street ("with my feet 10 feet off of Beale") can make you feel special and at home, she says (with relief) "Oh, I thought you said "Walking in Breakfast."
Nevermind.
Cue lots of giggling.
