Hopefully-Not-Evil Twin

I fear I’ve somehow found myself at the beginning of a Stephen King short story. At least I hope it’s a short story. I really don’t have the patience to see what’ll unfold in the time it takes to get through a novel.

It all seemed so innocuous. A few weekends ago, Kate, Paige, and I ventured out to some yard sales on our street while Mark was on a bike ride. We hit what appeared to be the kid-crap jackpot–a family with some older children was purging some great books, puzzles, and Kate’s favorite thing–dolls. We actually scored three dolls, doll clothes, and even a mini Bjorn-type carrier which caused Kate to nearly weep with joy when she first laid eyes on it. Kate staggered away from that sale with the greedy satisfaction that rich kids in Manhattan have after an FAO Schwartz spree.

We got home and I tossed what was washable into the hamper, then grabbed some Lysol disinfectant wipes to kill whatever Ebola or Junta type viruses might be lingering on the dolls’ hard plastic faces and extremities.

That’s when, standing over the sink, I stared into the face of one of the dolls and recoiled to see none other than my own baby, Paige, looking back at me. I mean, it’s UNCANNY how much this doll looks like Paige. I nearly did one of those Looney Tunes head shakes followed by a close-up peer and squint to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

I brought the thing over to Paige and held it up next to her. Aside from the doll’s Buddha-like man breasts, the thing is essentially Paige in inanimate plastic form.

Even Kate saw the freaky resemblance, but was nonplussed. As if coming to acquire your baby sister’s doll doppleganger is a perrrrrfectly normal thing to happen on a Saturday morning. Ah the sweet innocence of childhood.

So then. What next? Exactly my question. I mean, something like this doesn’t happen and then the family lives happily ever after, right?

Thus far I’m thrilled to report that it’s been life as usual at Casa McClusky. Though if something would happen I’d at least be relieved of this brutal state of suspense. But I guess that’s why Stephen King is so good at what he does, right?

At any rate, if anything weird goes down around here I can tell you right now, the doll did it.

Other People’s Mothers

When I was a kid I was always wishing that one or another of my friend’s mothers was my mom. It’s terrible to admit, but I’m sure other kids did it too.

Sleeping over at a friend’s house one night, her mom brought hot chocolate chip cookies to us where were watching a R-rated movie on cable–a movie she knew we were watching and was totally cool with. On the couch next to Leigh’s cute older brother I sat in a state of bliss, marveling at just how good she had it.

In high school another friend’s mom used to wake up early to make us lunches to bring to the beach. “Now Kristen, honey,” she’d say. “I know you don’t like mayo so there’s none on your sandwich, and I put the sliced tomatoes in a separate baggy so they wouldn’t get the bread soggy.” For real she would do this. I mean, that woman provided exceptional service. Of course my friend rolled her eyes through it all, but I was ready to have adoption papers drafted.

Now that I’m a mother myself, the thought that Kate or Paige would ever want to trade me in or upgrade me is loathsome. And the fact that my mother’s no longer around for me to take for granted is even worse.

At some point after my mother died I remember going through a sort of panicked phase of feeling like I needed to identify the person who’d act as her Second Runner Up. I wondered whether Mark’s mom would suddenly transform from mother-in-law to Mom for me. I mean, she was there being Mark’s mom already, so I thought I could just sort of slip in on that action. I considered whether any of my mother’s old friends from Rhode Island–or even one of my sisters–would step up and start being my new mother. I even wondered whether my dad would demonstrably start filling the role of both parents. Absurd as it is to admit, I think I expected him to start calling me twice as much to pick up the slack in my parental phone time.

Thinking back I’m not sure exactly what I was looking for this stand-in Mama to do. Maybe just shower me with attention? Be the person who after a conversation where I complained of having a scratchy throat thought to call me the next day to check on how I was feeling? Though, truth be told, I’m not even sure my own mother did that.

As it turned out, no one person presented themselves to me in whatever contrived way my mind envisioned it might happen. And I see now that it would have been absurd for that to have happened anyway. First off, anyone with any emotional sense would not have wanted to step on my mother’s proverbial toes. It was more respectful to honor her unreplicatable place in my life. But anyone’s attempts to up their maternal juju toward me would likley have come off as artificial anyway. Granted, I may well have lapped it up, but it would’ve been a rebound relationship borne out of my neediness. And we all know those are short-lived. At least they tend to be.

Once the shock that my mother was gone for good started to wear off–or once I became more accustomed to it–I realized I just had to butch up. I’d been trying to sidestep the whole dismal thing by finding a suitable maternal understudy. And for me, it just didn’t work that way. At least not in the form of one person. 

This weekend I got a great dose of Mama glory from my friend Mike’s mother, Marilyn. When I first met her ten years ago I remember thinking I needed to get myself to LA as often as possible. I wanted to sit at her feet–she the regal matriarch and me the adoring wanna-be daughter–and soak in all her sassy, brilliant, loving, opinionated, intelligent Mamaness.

In fact, years flew by without seeing her again. My plan to stalk her never came to fruition. And yet reconnecting with her this weekend was all I needed to re-set my eager ‘when-can-I-visit-you-next?’ agenda. What makes Marilyn especially addictive is, as you find yourself joking, laughing, and linking arms with her and her three sons–wanting nothing more than to be an insider in their scene–she’s so down-to-earth, letting you into her home and what she’s doing in the easiest most natural way, that you realize part of her feel-good brilliance is her ability to make you feel exactly what you want–like you’re part of her family, like you’re one of them. How can you not want more more more of that?

And today, I crashed my friend Lisa’s weekly visit-with-kids to her parent’s house. Her mom hadn’t met Paige yet, and with my weird scheduling luck with seemingly all of Lisa’s parties, it’d been ages since she’d seen Kate. I can use that as the excuse for the visit, but really I knew I was positioning myself for a hearty dose of Mama-ness. Instead of wallowing in my jealousness that Lisa has fabulous–and local–parents, it seems more productive to just get in on the action. Even when I know I’m engineering myself into the setting, it’s still nice to get a hit of it.

As I’m sitting in the back yard there today, seeing Lisa’s dad pull Kate through the grass on a wagon as she sips milk like a toddler Cleopatra, then watching Lisa’s mom make Play-Doh turtles and pancakes, happily letting Kate mix up the colors and admiring her advanced verbal skills–I realized that my special stealth skill for tapping into other’s people’s mothers isn’t lost on Kate.

Today Kate and Paige were entertained, fed, and admired by two devoted world-class grandparents, if only for the day. Before conking out on the car ride home, Kate sleepily requested that I “call those grandparents to make another play date” soon. For her sake and mine, I certainly will.

What Do You Say?

Tomorrow morning we’re flying to LA to our dear friends Mike and Lorin’s wedding. To say I’m elated, verklempt, and generally fired up for a good party, is an understatement.

Mike asked me if I’d get up and say something at the wedding. To which I immediately said yes yes yes. He mentioned something about “funny and profound.” I think it was meant as more of a compliment to me than a directive. But still. Uh, no pressure!

God knows I’m absurdly enthusiastic about Mike and Lorin and this wedding and their whole love thang. From the minute I got Mike’s call, sweetly telling me that he had some news, that while they’d be on vacation in California they decided they’d get married–from that moment I’ve been so crazy excited and happy. I’m like the guy in the ad for that cholesterol-lowering medicine. You know, the one where he gets in an elevator and he’s so fired up he announces to all the other worker drones what his cholesterol level is.

I’m using every excuse I can to tell people about this wedding. My mailman drops off some letters. “Letters?” I say. “Why, I wonder whether my friends Mike and Lorin are having their mail held in Brooklyn while they’re out in California FOR THEIR WEDDING.”

Getting my eyebrows done today. “So what are you doing this weekend?” I ask the woman pouring hot wax on my head. And without giving her a chance to answer: “Well I’m going to LA for a wedding. My friends Mike and Lorin are getting married. Yeah, they’ve been together for 12 years,” I say launching into fast-talking excited detail blather about ‘Well the wedding is going to be totally casual. Like kids and stuff will be there, and swimming in the pool, and Mexican food. Oh, Mike’s mom’s house–where it’s at–is next door to Shawn Cassidy’s. Or at least he used to live there. Wait, did I tell you about Lorin’s Grammy?”

This is all to perfect strangers, so you can imagine how I’ve chattered on rapid-fire to people who I know. People who feel compelled by their good natures to feign interest and not tell me after the second hour of “so I think I might wear this steel gray strapless sundress I just got even though Mike keeps stressing how it super casual–like have your swimsuit on under your clothes casual–but I was thinking maybe if I wear it with flip flops…”–managed to not tell me to just SHUT UP.

You’d think after all this talking I’ve been doing that I’d have something to say when they want me to get up and speak. But I’m like a deer in the headlights. What could I ever say that will be good enough? Charming, funny, and sufficiently rife with homage to their epic relationship?

Of course, poor Mark gets the brunt of me prattling on this topic–the what I’ll say topic–too. Until today he said in his divine smartitude, “Um, mabye you’re overthinking this.”

To which I said, “Yeah, I know. I was thinking that.”

So essentially what I think I want to say is this. Consider this a kind of rough outline of the topics I want to cover:

I) I vaguely remember having a sort of love-turf-war kinda of feeling when Mike met Lorin. Even though by the time they got together I’d moved out of New York and had somehow managed to morph the obsessive daily-detail-sharing kinda friendship Mike and I had into a less co-dependent and more mature sort of obsessive long-distance adoring friendship. But despite my skepticism Lorin managed to quite easily crack my heart open and make me want to obsessively share my mundane life details with him too. That and drink too much wine, wear silly wigs, and sing show tunes.

    A) Lorin never felt like the-guy-with-Mike who I had to endure in order to spend time with Mike. We all know those couples, and with Mike and Lorin you get two excellent humans of equal social, intellectual and talent value. Except Lorin can cook and sing circles around Mike.

II) Somewhere along the way Lorin and I developed our own friendship. And after all these years it’s almost like I’ve forgotten who I knew first. (Thankfully I have a lot of geeky pictures of Mike and I with bad 80′s haircuts in London to remind me.) And in my twisted way there’s nothing more fun for me than to call Mike when I’m hanging out with Lorin to tell him how much fun Lorin and I are having and how much better friends Lorin and I are than he and I are. It’s a wonder I have any friends, really.

III) Somewhere in the midst of Mike and I changing our special alone-time dinners out to include Lorin and all of us getting along like a house on fire, I go ahead and fall in love too, and introduced Mark into the mix to take things up a level. And amazingly even with a fourth player, the mutual admiration fest carried on! And let it be know, I introduced Mike and Lorin to Mark in the way that you play a CD that you really love for someone and sit right next to them while they’re listening and say every few seconds, “Oh my God. Isn’t this great? Wait, it gets even better.” And despite my exceedingly obnoxious desire to get the three of them to all to love and appreciate and find each other funny, miraculously–blessedly–they did.

IV) But really I’m just blathering on about me and them and really this wedding is about them–even though clearly there’s some lingering issue with me needing to inject myself into their thing. So them. After twelve years together, two home purchases, three children, world travel, family visits, holidays, celebrations and tragedies, lasic surgery, tons of love love love and listening and processing and understanding, and sure probably some good fights–oh, and did I mention a GRAMMY AWARD?!–I mean after all that, it’s heart-wrenching and crazy and mind-boggling that these two people who are more married than some couples who have been married for decades, can finally actually get married in the State of California. Hallelujah!

    A) What’s happening this weekend was a long time coming. It’s really just the ceremony part, and the celebration of a fantastic marriage that’s been long underway.

V) I love love love them and wish them every happiness from the bottom of my heart and really think we should plan a trip to Poland together soon. Wouldn’t that be fun?

Oh God, I still don’t know what I’m going to say.

Truer Words Never Spoken

It was only a few years ago when hearing my nasally voice on my answering machine was the most cringe-worthy reflection I had of myself.

These days I have it much worse. A couple weeks ago we were hanging out barbequing with another family. Kate took their son’s play phone, cradled it between her shoulder and ear and walked around the yard saying, “Hi. Yeah, this isn’t a great time for me right now. Can I call you back?” And just to make sure everyone heard her, she repeated the exact same ‘conversation’ several times.

Needless to say my faux-innocent “Where does she come up with these things?” remark wasn’t terribly convincing.

Mark got a taste of this about a year ago when Kate wasn’t nearly as verbal as she is today. We were in the car and he slammed on the breaks and leaned on his horn, prompting Kate to lament from her carseat, “Come on, dude!”

Of course, Mark experiences the cute and funny version of what Little Big Ears can shoot back atcha. And it’s testament to the fact that as a parent he’s at least succeeded in cleaning up his language, even under driving duress.

I’m the one who endures the shame of overhearing Kate say to a doll she’s loading her in a stroller, “We have got to get out of here. We have got to get out the door!”‘

At least I’m not alone. At dinner last night another Mama friend told me her 3-year-old goes up to her one-year-old, leans into her face and asks, “Do you understand me? Do you understand me?!”

God it’s brutal having to hear yourself like that.

Why is it so many people are afraid of sounding like their mothers? Take it from me, it’s far worse sounding like yourself.

Believe It Or Not, I Have a Closet Full of High Heels

Yesterday I had an appointment to get my hair colored. I’d decided it was getting too blonde in the front. But then–in a mode typical of how I’ve been operating lately–by the time I was sitting in the seat at the salon, I decided the color looked fabulous.

So I asked her if she could just give me a trim.

As she’s cutting she’s asking me about whether I need any more shampoo or anything and I say something about Tigi products. But instead of saying Tee-Gee, as I guess the company is pronounced, I said Tig-Ee.

This causes her to laugh and say, “It’s Tee-Gee.You’re reading kid’s books all the time so you’re all Tig-EE, like Tigger and Pooh. That’s so funny.”

Uh, excuse me? She might as well have asked me if I have “Congrats Class of 2008! Go Badgers!” written in window paint all over my mini van.

And for your information, we don’t have a mini van. (Yet.)

Mark keeps pictures of the girls on his phone so he can show them off to people at work. Since I’m always with Kate and Paige, I clearly need to put some pictures on my phone from when I was a business woman.

“Now in this shot I was signing a multi-million dollar contract with a client I brought in.”

“Here’s me at the Monday morning management meeting.”

“Oh and in this one I’m running through a spreadsheet, telling my team about our finance goals for the quarter.”

I Was Funny

When Mark got home from work the other night we were having a beer in the kitchen as Kate ran around like a wild child, Paige kicked in her bouncy seat, and our dinner finished cooking.

At one point I turned to Mark and said, “Hold that thought. I have got to get out of these work clothes.” I was wearing a t-shirt, yoga pants, and flip flops.

Mark cracked up.

Nothing better to me than making that man laugh.

Dermal Drama, Act 17: The Good Doctor

Whenever we were leaving my grandmother’s house when I was little, she’d trundle into the back of her little apartment and come out with a couple grocery bags for us to take home. You know, full of non-perishables like napkins, coffee, toilet paper.

Thankfully we weren’t in a financial situation where such a gift was needed. I think it was just Bopchi’s way of mothering her daughter. And like so many well-intentioned acts, it bugged the shit out of my mother.

“Ma!” she’d groan. “They have grocery stores in Rhode Island, you know.”

I doubt my mother really thought my grandmother considered those of us dwelling over the Massachusetts border lived like savages. But there was some element to the act that in my mom’s eyes bespoke her mother’s small-mindedness.

Which wasn’t to say my mom didn’t have her own small-minded opinions and high-minded attitudes. The baby in my family, I was the first of four kids to venture beyond the East Coast for college. To my parents who’d done their fair share of travel, the Midwest represented a No Man’s Land. We knew no one from there–save a distant cousin of my dad’s–and never had need or desire to go there. And certainly, though it was never verbalized, there was an attitude I’ll admit I shared that certain goods or services hailing from those parts were simply, well, inferior.

So as it turned out, my first episode with my eye going all jenky took place my sophomore year, in Ohio. It was the first day of a long weekend when I woke up and literally couldn’t see straight. By random chance I was boarding a plane to Boston that very day. But it seemed clear that if a trip hadn’t already been on the books–and even if I had to feel my way blindly through the airport–I was going to be seen by a doctor back home.  

Anyway, as it turns out now, I have a father-in-law who is a doctor in Ohio. Funny how the universe works, isn’t it?  And the thing is, I’m sure he’s a fine fine doctor. (See how much I’ve grown?)  

Here in the Bay Area, we’re blessed with many world-class doctors and medical institutions.  So if you’re someone with any lingering medical snobbery issues like myself, it’s comforting knowing that you’re in the presence of pros. But God help you if you need to see any of them in a timely manner. With my most recent eye outage last summer, my Cycloptic episode had passed in the many weeks it took for me to get an audience with San Francisco’s Grand Poobah of Migraines. So really, net/net I’m not sure what you have to gain here.

This past week, our number came up for Paige’s long-awaited appointment with a pediatric dermatologist. Of course, her eczema, once lush and thriving, is barely visible now. (Thankfully.) But she still enjoys some vigorous and bloody scalp scratching at times, so I figured I’d bring her in.

The morning of the appointment I was lying in bed strategizing about how I’d explain to the doctor why my peaches-and-cream skinned baby required her super-in-demand professional attention. Then Mark came in from getting Paige from her crib and said, “Poor thing scratched the shit out of her cheek in her sleep.”

Indeed it looked like she’d wrestled with a badger and lost.

“Oh awesome!” I shouted, thrilled I wouldn’t be arrested for Munchausen’s by Proxy after all. We might even seem legit amidst the other skin-plagued kids in the waiting room.

At the doctor’s office the resident who saw us first asked me to undress Paigey to her diaper. As I did, revealing nothing by healthy glowing skin–I nervously blathered on, assuring her Paige was looking more lizard-like than cherubic just weeks ago. And I positioned Paige so her scabby, scratched up cheek caught the light of the bright overheads to look optimally atrocious.

Turns out I had no reason to worry. I guess there are others like me who suffer from the same “inability to replicate the noise for the mechanic” type problem at the doctor’s office. Or maybe these docs just took pity on me.

The resident, and the doctor who later joined her, could not have been any nicer. I mean, after our first five minutes of pleasantries I wanted them to come home and join us for dinner. Truly.

First off, they just loved little Paige. And sure, that only means they’re mortal. But despite how easy it is to adore her, I still appreciate when people gush, especially those who are awash in babies and by no means are required to.

Second, they informed me Paige actually still has some eczema brewing. On her legs! It’s pretty mild at this point, but it’s there. And the head scratching is something they said we need to handle before she has permanent scarring. Quel horreur! Here’s the baby I wanted to do the eye-cream-at-infancy test with to make up for my own youthful sun worship skin damage, then someone mentions something about scarring. Thank God it’s not too late to intervene.

The treatment? More of the same kinda lotions and salves I’d already gotten from the pediatrician and the Big Girl Dermatologist–stuff I’d feared I shouldn’t be using on a baby and wanted some validation around from a specialist. But get this: They also want us to give her an antihistamine before bed every night so she’ll relax, sleep deeply, and won’t scratch, which triggers the itch-scratch-eczema vicious cycle. Yes, actual medical professionals are telling me I need to give my baby meds that will make her sleep through the night. Pinch me!

Next they’ll tell me that my fantasy product–2-Hour Ambien for Toddlers, a foolproof nap in pill form–actually exists and I need to start Kate on it immediately.

At one point in the examination the doctor undid Paige’s diaper and took a look at the skin yonder. “Wow. You are doing a great job with her diaper area,” she clucked. “Look at how nice that is. I mean, I see a lot of babies, and believe me, this looks great.”

I’m ashamed to admit I immediately flushed with pride. I take a shine to compliments anyways, but this feedback was the closest thing to a positive corporate performance review that I’ve had in months. And the thing is, I didn’t even know I was excelling in that area!

After handing me prescriptions and info sheets, and sending a few more ‘ga ga goo goos’ Paige’s way, the doctor actually thanked me for bringing her in, and encouraged me to come back if she ever has a flare up, or if I have any concerns.

As doctor’s visits go, it was a ridiculously positive end to a several-month-long ordeal. Solid medical advice, relaxed and attentive service, and super friendly to boot.

They must be from the Midwest.

The Mama Posse Rides Again

It’s good to have a group of Mama friends who you can say nearly anything in front of and they’ll not only not be horrified, they’ll suggest a great solution, rush to console you, or tell you they’ve been through the same thing–only nine times more gruesome and harrowing. You walk away either armed with answers, relieved that it’s not as bad as it could be, or both.

I mean, how can you go wrong with that kind of support? If high school friendships were like that we’d all be so secure and functional most therapists would be out of business.

A couple weeks ago I was out for dinner and a movie with my Mama posse. After downing our pre-theater beers like frat boys on a bender (even sans kids we’re efficient), we settled into chatting and got to the topic of babies. Specifically if any of us would be having more.

One friend’s a strong ‘maybe.’ She’s definitely getting that twinkle in her uterus, but she’s not sure whether it’s just her body telling her it’s that time again, or if it really makes sense for her family. Another woman was more clear-cut. “Uh, no. We are done.” And the third has already taken physiological steps to close down the factory, as it were. Though that’s not stopping her from sometimes daydreaming about adding yet another to their party of five.

As for me? Well, I can understand everyone’s position. I nod in hearty agreement with whatever reasons each of them share for wanting what they want–or what they don’t want, as it were. Which is to say, I enjoy indulging myself on all angles of the issue, even though I know it’s nearly certain that our ball-bouncing days are gone around here.

Anyway, at one point in this chatting-while-speed-eating-and-drinking meal, in some non-explicit way one friend made a comment alluding to something that I didn’t catch at all. And it sparked the ‘We Are Done’ Mama to say, “Oh, totally! I mean even I think of having another one for that reason.” Then the mother of three chimes in that even with three already, she’s had that thought too.

And I’m sitting there, having totally lost the train of conversation within a matter of seconds, and lamenting why I always miss the good parts. I’m the one cleaning condensation off my snorkel mask when all the sea turtles swim by, or up getting popcorn during the scene when the two women kiss. So I guess I should be used to it.

What’s weird is they’re all fervently–but also kind of abashedly–agreeing to something. And when I ask what it is, they all turn to me, but still can’t seem to make themselves articulate what it is. And this is a group of women with whom I’ve discussed constipation, condoms, and other issues of a fecal, sexual, and personal nature, without batting an eye. Oh, and we talk about reality TV, too.

So finally, one friend skirts the issue in an attempt to explain it to me. “You know,” she says, “If you have three,” emphasizing the three, “then if something were to…” She still can’t bear to spit it out, but as it clicks in my brain I,of course, call out loudly, “Oh! What you’re saying is if one dies, you’ll still have two other ones?,” causing the older Latino server behind the counter to snap his head in my direction and catch eyes with me. And likely causing my friends to want to take me out too. (Since, there would still be three of them left…)

More than anything I was surprised that I’d never had this thought myself. Generally I think my Mama brain has explored every possible potential horror story, wacky scenario, and what-if situation related to family, children, and marriage. That’s what you do in the many collective hours of nursing a baby in the middle of the night. In case you were wondering.

And I would like to make it perfectly clear that these mothers are adoring, devoted, and utterly first-rate at this motherhood thing. It’s not that they’re doing Britneys, driving recklessly with un-carseated kids and thinking to themselves, “Who cares if I crash? I have back-up children!” No, no, no. That’s not it at all.

This idea that they admit is, um, offbeat–though their very unwillingness to so much as say it out loud–is actually the kind of thinking that comes out of mad mad Mama love. That comes from the desperate place that you don’t want to go to but you force yourself to, which is to think of what your life would be like if suddenly you were without one of your beloved babies. And since you’ve made yourself go there, then like all practical problem-solving mothers, you need to figure out what happens next in that most unthinkable scenario. And as much as you fear that even having these thoughts might make any of them more likely (God forbid) to come to pass, the only consolation you can provide yourself is that at least you would still have another child–or children–to love.
 
See? It’s all rather bleak, but I totally get it. And I’m truly shocked that I hadn’t ever had the thought myself.

From there our conversation veered off to other morbid and mundane topics. And we shoveled down more barbeque, swilled beer, intermittently reminded each other the movie was about to start, and felt grateful that we were Mamas of sweet healthy children who were home safely with their fathers as we enjoyed a rare and blissful night out.

The knee bone’s connected to the…

Kate: “My eyebrows hurt, Mama.”

Me: “Really? Why is that?”

Kate: “Because I ate a lot of food.”

Hi Ho Silver, Away!

When my mother was sick and started losing her hair, my sister Ellen went online to find her some turbany hat-type things. I was home in RI when the package arrived, and since Mom and I didn’t know Ellen had ordered them, when we saw the return address—Chemo Savvy—we weren’t sure what to expect.

But when you’re relegated to spending day after day indoors, a mysterious package like this represents a small adventure. So, sitting on the edge of the bed, I knifed the tape off the box and handed it to my mother to open.

Not one to beat around the bush, when she saw what was inside were hats for her balding head, she rolled her eyes. “Oh God. Look at these,” she said, holding one up. Then looking at the label, “Ellen sent them.”

Complaining, especially when she was sick, had become somewhat of an art form for my mother. In fact, she could be ruthless, and many was the time my sisters or I would chase after some kindly nurse or visitor who’d been worn down by my mother’s crabbiness, to convince them while standing in the driveway that she didn’t mean it, she was really just angry at the cancer not them, and tomorrow would be a better day.

From here now I can see that the complaining, and the brutal sarcasm—which had always been her hallmark—must have been a kind of last-ditch form of empowerment. Making fun of the hats distanced her from the unwelcome reality that was upon her. Made it somehow seem like wearing turbans when your hair falls out from chemo was something other people do, not you. Even if it was just for a moment before having to give into whatever it was, she liked to exercise some resistance.

Thankfully, my mother’s sense of humor managed to thrive alongside her grumpy-patient persona. So after the initial, “Now why did she buy these?” remark, followed by an eyebrow raise and an approving cluck that they were at least all cotton, she pulled out one of the hats, put it on, and looked at me while intoning, “Chemo Saaavvvy!”

We sat on the bed for God knows how long, both trying on the hats, commenting to each other, “Kemo Sabe? That hat is Chemo Savvy!” and laughing until we cried.

When all else looked bleak, these moments provided enough of a respite to fortify us for the next gut-wrencher lurking around the corner.

This morning Chez McClusky we had some excellent family time piled into Mark and my bed, reading books, playing with Kate’s new yard sale doll, and kissing the bejesus out of Paige. Since Paige’s favorite alone time activity is clawing at her head, I’ve started putting her to sleep in those cotton skull caps intended for newborns. And since she’s outgrown most of them by now, they don’t fold up at the brims like they’re supposed to.

When the hat’s pulled down low on her eyes, the resulting look is at best like a flapper girl. With her ears sticking out–or more often than not, one ear–she looks slightly Smurfish. Or, if you catch her at just the right angle, as I did today, hat snug around the forehead and loose but crumpled down on top, she looks a little Chemo Savvy.

Oh Miss Paige, who we love so well. You will never know your grandmother, I’m sorry to say. But take it from me, she had a wicked sense of humor. And I just know that if she saw you this morning, she’d be calling you her little Kemo Sabi.