Some time last year Husband No. 1 and I had the bright idea to take Niece No. 1 to Ireland. She calls her female cousins (some who have visited us in the States) her "sisters" and it was time to return the gesture. The pricing structure of airline travel and the fact that we only see Husband No. 1's family every few years led us to book a 10 day visit, which for grown-ups who love nothing better than sitting around drinking Jameson's and telling lies is just fine. For a 5 year old separated from the mother with whom she is joined at the hip? Not so much. I had my misgivings when we booked the dates; and as departure approaches I have flashes of a whining, petulant, forlorn, anxious princessa who will insist that she Wants To Go Home!!!
Now I, who has for better or worse 2 kids under my belt, can be the Tom DeLay of Mothers and am quite prepared to whine, petulate (if such a verb exists), and holler back until she accepts that she might as well go outside and milk some cows because we are not driving to Dublin just yet. Husband No. 1 will be upset. First he will accuse me of child abuse. (Picture me snorting.) Then he will try to set up Skype so that Niece No. 1 can talk to her mother any time she wants, and we will be treated to the spectacle of her bleary-eyed mother (since there's a 5 hour time difference) alternately weeping and trying to crawl back to bed. When that doesn't work, La Princessa whose other name is She Who Will Not Be Denied will convince Husband No. 1 to book a flight for himself and her and fly her home on Friday and return to Ireland on Sunday so that we can fly out of Dublin on Tuesday.
As you can tell, in my spare time, I'm always thinking up doomsday scenarios. Despite myself, I go to the places we are specifically instructed not to go to which is one of the reasons that even after more than 25 years writing poetry and fiction making the work is its own kind of torture for me. I actually have notes on an opera about Richard Speck, for chrissakes. Don't think I'll be working on that piece any time soon.
Now I, who has for better or worse 2 kids under my belt, can be the Tom DeLay of Mothers and am quite prepared to whine, petulate (if such a verb exists), and holler back until she accepts that she might as well go outside and milk some cows because we are not driving to Dublin just yet. Husband No. 1 will be upset. First he will accuse me of child abuse. (Picture me snorting.) Then he will try to set up Skype so that Niece No. 1 can talk to her mother any time she wants, and we will be treated to the spectacle of her bleary-eyed mother (since there's a 5 hour time difference) alternately weeping and trying to crawl back to bed. When that doesn't work, La Princessa whose other name is She Who Will Not Be Denied will convince Husband No. 1 to book a flight for himself and her and fly her home on Friday and return to Ireland on Sunday so that we can fly out of Dublin on Tuesday.
As you can tell, in my spare time, I'm always thinking up doomsday scenarios. Despite myself, I go to the places we are specifically instructed not to go to which is one of the reasons that even after more than 25 years writing poetry and fiction making the work is its own kind of torture for me. I actually have notes on an opera about Richard Speck, for chrissakes. Don't think I'll be working on that piece any time soon.
