Grandma wanted Easter bunny pictures. OK, let’s go. I got the kids as presentable as possible (hair mostly combed, clothes mostly unwrinkled) and we climbed into the car. All the way there, there were jokes and laughter, sweet giggles and reverent utterances of the word bunny in hushed whispers. Everyone concerned about my niece, whose demeanor, at 11 months, was reasonably a question mark. On we went. We lined up behind 2 other families and waited for the bunny elves (they’re elves at Christmas, anybody got a better description for the Helpers of the Hare?) to ready the garden of the arrival of the Rabbit of Spring. And in a few moments, he made his grand entrance, all 6 feet, fluffy white fur, and natty plaid vest with giant horn-rimmed glasses. Sammy got the first high five, and that sent beams out the sides of his face. Sabrina sat in rapturous awe.
Family #1 stepped up for the snapshot. The pretty pink-dressed girl and ruddy cheeked boy happy for a couple of snaps before said boy initiated the meltdown. Not unusual, I thought, remembering how Sabrina was plopped on Santa’s lap, sat in bemused surprise for clicks 1-3, and then slowly descended into a mess of tears and wailing. But did I think that would happen here? Sure it could, but, hey, it’s been 4 whole months, and she loves people and this will be fabulous, worry about the baby over there, OK?
Family #2. Older girls, so it was snip, snap, snip and done. As the girls hopped out of the area, Sabrina turned her head, and Exorcist style, lost her fool mind. Not projectile pea soup, thank goodness, but a sound came from her that was eerily similar to my girl Regan. And it kept going, and going, and going (not unlike another bunny we know so well).
The 11 month old shot in the dark? Acted like we’d just given her a giant chocolate chip cookie and introduced her to her current crush, Sid the Science Kid. The 5 year old? A champ, who even smiled without looking like he was packing hard boiled eggs in his cheeks. And then my darling daughter, peeling the paint off the walls with the sheer fury of her lungs. Charming.
In the end, we have a lovely picture of Lucy with the Easter bunny, and an extra snap of Sammy that the bunny elves let my mom take (probably out of pity, oh would am I kidding, definitely out of pity). I nixed the screaming child because that image is already burned into my mind thankyouverymuch. I simply buckled the hollering wallaby back into her stroller and started walking.
Today, I got to be the Mom of That Kid. Nobody likes to be TMoTK, even though we all expect to take our turn, sooner or later. Even though we, on the other side, feel sympathy for TMoTK, always feel pitied when we are TMoTK. And certainly, I, in striving to be the valedictorian of everything I do, hate to be pitied. Not that I had any power over such an outburst, but as a parent, I feel like I should be able to, and I hate being stuck between that particular rock and hard place. I can’t help feeling judged for something I can’t control. But yet, I feel like I should be have the control, and you see the vicious cycle.
But, like spilled milk, it’s over, and the tirade has finally quieted, thanks only to complete exhaustion and a sleep that still included stifled sobs until a good solid REM could be achieved. Seriously, she screamed all the way to the car, all the way home, all the way through lunch, and fought valiantly against the nap she simultaneously wanted (“Where BLANKEY, MOMMY!”) Most certainly, she will awake as Little Mary Sunshine, and I will ponder the options for psycho-shock therapy for toddlers.
Good gravy, what is she going to be like as a teenager?
All I know is that I'm glad it's happy hour somewhere.
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