Good times. Of course if I am honest with myself (and look back through old photos) I am forced to also remember this:
Not such good times. Dare I say? Times that sucked ass. Ladies and gentlemen, I am going on vacation. You know, if you call a road trip down the coast of California with a toddler "vacation." And if you do, I hope you save room in the suitcase for your ball gag and nipple clamps. Because if you think six hour stretches of driving on I5 with a two year old is relaxing, you are one sadistic motherfucker.
We are road tripping down to San Diego and then up to Santa Monica for my brother's wedding where Zoey will rock a flower girl frock of black taffeta, bedazzled with a sparkley rhinestone brooch and princess glitter slippers. You better believe I will harass you all with photos upon our return.
But not to worry, mama's taken care of you. In my absence I have lined up a star roster of guest bloggers, a veritable who's who of who I secretly want to be. First up, we've got this hot blogging chica. Then this lil' bit of sass. If anyone can get you through your hump day it's her. This saucy lady will go next. And finally this one, way to end the week right. I honestly think the week I am gone will be the best week of posts on my blog ever. Seeing as how it will all be so exciting and new, I thought I'd introduce a special guest star on Saturday, a non-blogging mama with a lot to say. (Oy. And I do mean a lot.) Think of this blog as The Love Boat and she as Charo, all flash and glitter, rapid fire words with a shake shake shake.
Secret's in the sauce, dear readers, secret's in the sauce. You'll have to tune in next Saturday to find out who this very special guest blogger will be. Coochie Coochie! As for me, I'm outta' here! Wish us luck. And when I return you are all cordially invited to sit at the Captain's table (where I will serve Kraft mac and cheese, you know, the bunny shaped kind? On account of it will be a special occasion reunion episode and all).
Missing you already!
xoxo,
Susannah
When Zoey was just a few months old there was an earthquake. It wasn’t that big, maybe a 4.5. This was at our old house in the city. Zoey was asleep on our bed and Bryan and I were in the kitchen. I have lived in California all my life. I have felt tiny tremors that I blamed on passing trucks. I have tingled with the endorphins of larger quakes when the floor swayed like a hammock beneath my feet. Earthquakes shock me with the thrill of someone who has never truly been touched by natural disaster. They are stories to be shared with the cashier at the supermarket, light and fun, a watercooler of where were you when? So I was surprised when that smallish 4.5 quake shook me with a magnitude I had never before felt. The kitchen tiles retro pink and burgundy, a jarring tilt-a-world, vertigo, a split moment when Bryan and I look at each other and my mouth fills with the sharp metallic tang of fear. The earth moves but it is no longer just me that it is moving. I picture Zoey on my bed, the plate glass window above her head cracking and falling, raining sheets of sharp. I picture the worst. Bryan is away for a few days, sailing down the coast of California with my dad. A subject worthy of its own post, worlds colliding, but what’s important here is that Zoey and I are alone. Last night Nacho slept with me, curled into the indentation of Bryan’s body in the fluffy feather-top mattress. At 2am I felt him jolt awake, then a deep guttural growl the likes of which I have never heard from a cat this side of the Serengeti. Then the crunch of something stepping on crinkly tissue paper. A crash. I turned on the light and bolted out of bed, naked. Nacho wouldn’t even get off the bed and there I was with bare feet and bare body gripping a 5” mag-flashlight as if it were a glock and I was sheathed in a bullet-proof body stocking. Was it a rat? A mouse? Another snake? A possum? Did a raccoon crawl through the open window? A midget? I never did find anything, and I never went back to sleep, either. After searching the entire house I lay back in bed with the cold metal flashlight resting lightly on my sternum. Ready. For sunrise. So many things go bump in the night when you are floating precariously on a sheet, a plate, bone porcelain thin, when you are on this earth with a crust so flaky. So many things rupture the sense of solidity. Motherhood has skinned me alive, left me ripe wide open, hollow and fragile. But at the same time it has filled me up, liquid steel poured molten hot into holes I never even knew were there. I am hollow, I am whole, both larger and smaller. I am afraid and brave all at the same time, the sudden release of the energy that is Zoey having ruptured something in me irreversibly. I am made stronger by quaking.
That's me, there in the back with the glasses.
In case any of you were wondering if I am your mama, the answer is no. And if you should argue with that statement my daughter will kick your ass. While laughing. And doing a jig. At two years old she has become a bit of a sociopath when it comes to what is hers and apparently, along with a new tiara, one Bonne Belle Lip Smacker, a scarf and a magic wand that lights up, I am hers. MAMA! She screams when I drop her off at daycare, one small hand smacking my ass as she says it. MY MAMA! Like a 30” pimp establishing ownership over one of his girls. And it kind of makes sense in that scenario, what with all the sticky hands and smiling eyes hovering around like a band of very short gypsies. But it does not really make sense when we are at home and Nacho has the nerve to curl around my ankles mewing for food. NO NACHO, THAS MY MAMA! Zoey has taken to pushing Nacho away from me, tiny toddler fingers perilously close to his backside kitten camera shutter. Push. MINE! And Bryan. Poor Bryan. It’s hard enough having a toddler and maintaining intimacy with your spouse, but when said toddler gets in your spouse’s face and fairly growls at him THAS MY MAMA! NO! it is all that much more difficult. Needless to say, Zoey is in jeopardy of ever having a sibling. Which right about now seems to be her agenda. And Bryan’s. On this they are in agreement. Saturday saw me as Zoey’s bitch from the minute she woke up at 5:30am. MAMA? MAMA! she called from her crib. MAMA! I HAVE A BOOGER NOSE! So I got up to wipe it, to change her diaper, to watch Dora’s Super Silly Fiesta, to make oatmeal and cuddle on the couch. Mama, you mine? Zoey asked all soft and sweet, the sunrise a sliver of warm pink outside her window. And in that moment I was.
Zoey has gotten to the age of pretend. I listen to her play by herself, feeding her teddy bear cups of tea and talking to the bird wall decals above her bed at night. You want some? She says, and then inexplicably, it’s very dangerous! Be careful! Keep trying! I have no idea what’s going on inside her head, if she's a bird or a lady dripping with diamonds, feathered mules on her feet. But she knows who she is, regardless of name, no matter the shoes. She is who she is and she doesn’t know anything else. I distinctly remember when I first learned I had a last name. My brother and I were sitting in the little red Datsun outside of our house on Scenic and my mom was in the driver’s seat, quizzing us on our phone number. 4534277453427745342774534277, she made us repeat it over and over and then she told us our last name. Remember it, she said, that is who you are. And it suddenly occurred to me that I had an identity. I was Susannah Jenkins, 4534277. Should I ever get lost that’s what I was supposed to say. But in realizing that others saw me as something, a name, a phone number, a house, hair, part of a family, a smile, shoes, as the daughter of someone who drove a little red Datsun—I suddenly already felt lost. I was no longer just the me that existed in the space of my own breath. My brother is no longer Andy. He goes by his full given name, which is Andrews, one man in plural, a family name passed down from generation to generation. So I could have remained Amanda after all, my eyes soft and large like a velvet painting. Andrews and Amanda, no rhyme there. I could have worn blue, although Amanda certainly does not speak with a Brooklyn accent. Amanda doesn't blog about baginas. But I couldn’t have kept that veil of me. The lack of knowledge that others see me as a girl, as silly, as a nuisance, as beautiful and ugly, as awkward, as a phone number and a name, a place, as someone who stands with her toes turned inward. Because there comes a point in growing up when we gain the knowledge of our place in the world and lose the single solid sense of who we are without the noise of opinion. I watch Zoey as she studies an earring I have dropped on the bathroom floor, the way her chubby little fingers turn it this way and that, the way she softly pushes it deep inside her ear canal until I scream at her to stop. It’s dangerous! I say. Be careful! And she turns to me and smiles, the serenity of someone who knows who she is no matter what anyone thinks. And because I am her mother, Susannah, a girl who looks good in purple, a woman who has a husband that calls her an 'an emotional fish,' I look at my daughter's smile, at the gold glittering in ear wax, and I mourn the loss of her sense of herself. I mourn her knowing her name.
Or perhaps your feeling a bit more contemplative today. Quiet. Grey. Whisper serious, bespectacled and emo. If so, sshhh and make your mug into a hallowed work of art that critics will ponder for years to come. What can I say. It's Wednesday and you know something? These work weeks are longer than I remembered. What better way to get over the hump than to futz around with images of yourself in an alternate universe, visions of versions of you not sitting at that desk.
What I did not know about ladybugs is that they are wildly attracted to household pets. They chase them around the yard emitting a high-pitched squeal while trying to stick one little ladybug finger in the cat's behind.
But the ladybug quickly regained her composure once she remembered she could fly.
Ladybug! Ladybug! Fly away home! We won't get into the part about the house being on fire and the children being gone. This is a Midsummer Night's Dream, after all, not a nightmare. 
"
Quite frankly, I love how each doll has a name in quotes. Here’s “Cindy,” looking a little like maybe she used to be “Carl."
