eva's
|
|
It was a rainy Saturday. It was too wet to work on our forts in the backyard, so my sister and I had traded tree branches and sticks for couch cushions and pillows downstairs. Our indoor fort was shaping up nicely. The plush blanket flooring wrinkled in all the right places, and the windows through the dining room table seat-backs provided the perfect peek-a-boo views to the television. We were watching a Monk marathon on USA Network. We were glued, wondering just how Monk would work out this mind-bending crime. As the scene ended and the screen dimmed to black, an ad came up in its place. We usually took the commercial breaks to better our basement bungalow, to adjust the pillow pilings and vault our sheeted ceiling. This time, I opted for a juice break. “Do not use this product if you’re nursing, pregnant, or planning to become pregnant,” advised the narrator at the end of the ad. I looked at my sister quizzically. She was reinforcing the west-facing pillow wall. “How do you plan to have a baby?” I asked her, taking a long sip of my tropical cooler. She’d just turned 10. Surely she’d know. She knew which song was best to dance to from the piano’s preset playlist and which types of bugs were the friendliest. She knew most everything. My 8-year-old knowledge of where babies came from was quite simple. When you wanted a baby, you prayed, mom had told me. It may take some time, but God would hear you and place a seed in your belly. I didn’t know the details. That’d been enough when I asked when I was 6. Until now. How did you know when God would put the seed in your belly? I wondered. You couldn’t plan that. When Olivia didn’t answer, I asked her again. She huffed, puffing out her rosy cheeks. She didn’t have time for my dumb, uninformed, baby questions, especially in the middle of expert fort construction. “You just know, Eva,” she said, short and matter-of-fact. “You just know.” In my eight years on this planet, I’d never heard someone more sure of anything in their life. I looked at her as she continued to build, her blue eyes following her hands as she maneuvered the pillows. She didn’t explain, and I didn’t ask. Because she was so certain, and that was enough. Olivia assured me about much in the years to follow, not just the origin of babies. She assured me when I found out that Santa wasn’t the cuddly, real-life human-form I’d always pictured, and she assured me when I was nervous to sing a song all on my own at the talent show. She assured me that it was okay that I wanted to still play with my dollhouses when I was 12, and that there was nothing wrong with my hair the day a bully made fun of me for curling it. She assured me that I could do anything if I just followed my heart, and I watched as she led the way, following her own. I watched as she found her place and moved away, and I loved that she became more than a sister to me. She became my best friend. She assured me that I too would find my way, and that there was no one in the world like me, so I should just be me. She assured me that even when life got dark and scary, she’d be there. She assured me that no matter what, she’d be there. And she has been, and she’s assured me, in her own, beautiful, Olivia way. Just as she did that one rainy afternoon, in our own little Monk-filled world, beside the cushion-less couch.
1 Comment
As we rolled our mini garden out of Sam's Club last night, the four hydrangea treasures crowding the super-size cart, I remembered.
"Oh my gosh, we took the convertible!!" I exclaimed. Somehow I'd forgotten the 20-minute ride in the tornado tunnel to the "Club." My hair hadn't. "Oh I've done this before," Mom said, not fazed at all, not one note of concern for how the plants would weather the wind. I could see it, the beautiful blue and pink petals littering the shoulder of 31. They looked so sad without their stems. She'd done this before?? I watched as she worked the plants into the BMW like a puzzle. She moved the seats up, she carefully wedged, she secured. And she smiled. Putting the top up was for babies. She'd definitely done this before. Like a professional bloom manager, Mom masterfully fit the four huge hydrangeas into the mini, Hot Wheels-reminiscent car. And I was the helpful assistant. I sat there and took pictures of [myself] my super mom in action. I cradled one hydrangea in my lap as we drove, and only my hair suffered from the wind's doom. Now, as my share of hydrangeas sit safe and sound on my porch, I feel safe, too. I should have known Mom knew how to keep those petals in place. She saved me too, after all. Body Lotion Blues: An Experience
I had been weighing my options in the personal care aisle at Target for ten minutes. I think I smelled almost three quarters of the inventory and surprisingly only spurted lotion up my noise three times. As I wiped the last of some seasonally scented “Frosted Cranberry Fairy” residue from my nostrils (its smell as unimpressive and sad as its Nutcracker knock-off name), I was feeling defeated. I stepped back to let a lady with a cartful of pirate-themed party decorations and a whining toddler pass. She paused briefly in front of the Jergens and picked up two bottles. My eyes scanned the shelves. I’ll know it when I see it, I told myself. I played the scene in my head as I impressed my nonexistent coworkers at the imaginary holiday party, squirting a single-serving of heaven into their palm. They beamed, delighted that they too had found the lotion they never knew they needed. The tike howled, ripping me from my daydream. Mom shot her little one the trademark stare, the one reserved for only the most offensive of public outbursts. This one threatened to pull the plug on all pirate party festivities and call parent two. Almost instantly, the child was struck with silence. Amazing. I sniffed “Sugar Cookie Sparkle.” Now this was an actual contender! As I snapped the lid shut, my breath caught in my throat. I shifted my boots on the linoleum floor, and instead of squeaking, I’m certain they laughed. There was actual glitter in the formula. I don’t need to sparkle everywhere. I set (slammed) the stupid bottle of disappointment on the shelf. Dammit. Super Mom tossed the Ultra Healing moisturizer into her cart and it landed with a soft “thud” on a package of treasure chest napkins. She’d made her decision. She replaced the rejected bottle back to its space on the shelf. For a moment, I felt sad for the inanimate object, thinking of how any hopes it had of a new life of luxury atop a vanity or dresser in a real live house were now dead. Perhaps I should choose a rash healing cream while I’m here, I thought. I could already feel the hives starting to creep across my collarbone, flushing my skin the most appropriate shade of Christmastime red. I was literally getting nowhere. Super Mom had made it look so easy. As Super Mom rolled away victorious with her booty, she snagged a few travel size bottles of Purell off the end display. She’d need some line of defense against the fleet of booger monsters that were going to raise their germy sails all over her living room the next day. Fortunately, the absurd alcohol content promised to kill 99.99 percent of bacteria (and also turn her skin to paper). And that’s why she went with the Ultra Healing formula. I admired and slightly envied Super Mom’s decisive grace and realized I had to wrap things up. This was just ridiculous. Another woman, about my age, strutted with confidence down the aisle. She must use the phrase “quick Target run” and stick to it. Good for you, I muttered to her in my head, just a little rudely and a lot jealous. My run, on the other hand, had slowed to a crawl. Hope for the Indecisive (Me) Fellow 20-something grabbed a bottle of OGX shea butter lotion. I realized I hadn’t tested this one yet. As she placed the bottle in her basket, her sleeve caught the handle, the cuff of her windbreaker hiking up just a little. I could barely make out the lyrics to her favorite ballad in a modest cursive, wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet. Alright, universe, now you were just showing off. I smiled at the young woman’s back as she walked away. Thank you, my new friend. I picked up an identical bottle, shiny and brown and beautiful, and held it in my hands like a trophy. I had a good feeling about this. I popped the lid and squeezed a couple toots of fragranced air up my nose, inhaling. Yes. My lungs filled with the sweet, warm aroma, and I thought this was it. I’ve found my favorite lotion. Who knows, maybe I’d even get my favorite song lyric tattooed on my face. I might be able to narrow it down after all. I belong to the club that starts to develop a rash whenever I must narrow anything down. The “ever-selective-perhaps-I’m-just-particular” club. ESPIJP for short-ish. I’m the most indecisive human I’ve ever met.
Favorite Song Someday A.K.A. Never For example, there’s no way in h-e-double-hockey-sticks I could choose a single most favorite song. In fact, the last time I counted the number of songs with Eva favorite potential, it was just under a bajillion. Approximately. My Lord there’s so much to consider: genre, era, lyrical or instrumental, upbeat or more relaxed. Some songs are so musically complicated and surprising, they’re just shoe-ins. It would most definitely be the eighth deadly sin to leave them out. I listen to them at rebellious levels, pooping my pants at their splendid harmonies and glorious key changes. I am so moved I don’t even mind I’ll have to spend a total of 32 years in 105 more dressing rooms to find another pair of jeans I love as much as my now-soiled Levi’s. The line was recently discontinued. Zero percent convenient, 100 percent worth it. Tattoo-Worthy Beauties As I sift through my collection, I notice that many have verses I think might make a nice tattoo, the lyrics emblazoned boldly across the back or printed in neat script down the forearm. But this body art option of self-expression is only for the people who were blessed a bit more decisive than I. I will just continue marveling at them from afar, on my little yoga mat island. I don’t mind that I’m risking damage to my spinal column if I move my head that way. I can’t breathe anyways, and the pretty, inky poem spiraled on her hip is helping distract me from this 350-degree oven. Gymatorium-Famous Other songs aren’t quite pieces of tattoo-able musical art. But, there is something special about them that they make the coveted near-bajillion cut. Like the one from High School Musical I sang for the fifth grade talent show. I’d like to think the gripping lyrics detailing Gabriella’s romantic predicament were enough to distract the audience from my homemade instrumental track fiasco. The CD skipped so many times, I could practically read the secretary’s mind as she fiddled desperately with the buttons on the boombox. “Is this supposed to be a remix?” The lines around her eyes began to crinkle with worry. When I didn’t break into a freestyle about how much I longed for Troy Bolton, her last hope faded. A remix would have been a good idea, Mrs. Roberts. That would have been a good idea. Meaningfully Minimalistic Just as memorable, but perhaps carrying a little less elementary baggage, some songs are simple and thoughtful. Their passionate lyrics are expressive first-timer tattoo selections and the missing puzzle pieces in a wild and wonderful inked sleeve. These songs tell a story that stick with me long after the last note, and when I listen to them again, they’re even better than I remember them being. They don’t always have vocals. Sometimes, only instruments sing the sweetness all their own. I add them to my growing heap. So, at this point it’s obvious I’ll never be able to pick a favorite song. I can forget going under the needle with an inspired vision, too. I can’t even decide on a body lotion. Congratulations. We have finally admitted to our Michigan-can-handle-any-temperature-in-a-tank-top selves that we should stop wearing shorts. Fourth grade Eva may try to impress us all by wearing zip-offs during a winter storm warning, but those of us who would rather not fake a smile and say, “I’m actually hot!” have at least considered looking for the winter hat/mitten/lost bathing suit bottom (damn it!) bin.
If you can’t find your bin or you did find it but rather not endure another winter of itchy hat that you wear because you swear it’s cute, here’s how to prepare to knit your own. I can’t promise your creation will be cute but at least you can try. Grandma will say it’s memorable (just take it as a compliment). Put on Clothes I’m assuming we’re starting from scratch. You don’t have to put on real pants. You can just wear your pajamas or I-give-up pants and tuck your bottoms into your boots. Unless you’re wearing flip flops. It hasn’t dropped below 20 yet so you may be. Drive to Jo-Ann Fabrics I guess Michaels is fine, but I trust Jo-Ann. She’s my kinda lady. To help switch into let’s-get-crafting holiday mode, listen to Christmas music on the way. No, it’s not too early. Yes, you still can’t hit the high note in “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” I know, I thought this year would be different too. For extra festive points, remember all the words to “We Need a Little Christmas.” Triple points for harmonizing. Thank you, ninth grade choir. Pick Out Some Needles The circular needles look cool, but they’re all talk. Go for single-point. They’re classic and nostalgic, and when your grandkids want to learn how to knit, you can pass them down and say, “These were my first pair.” Tears will spring to your eyes and it will be a beautiful moment. Side note: The tears will be because you’ll remember how your first hat actually turned out. Pick Out a Fun Yarn Just avoid wool because you will regret that later. Sparkle yarn looks neat but sometimes it can be itchy, so don’t come crying to me when you figure that out. Get Your Coupon After weighing all your options and most likely loving the one yarn not on sale, download the life-changing Jo-Ann’s App. God bless 60 percent off a single non-sale item. Google A Beginner Pattern If you’re like me, it’s going to take more than 10 minutes to decide which of the 50 free, alleged “easy” hat knitting patterns you’ll be able to pass as some sort of head warmer. Budget at least half an hour. Your ears’ livelihood are at stake, for goodness sake. No pressure. Figure Out How to Read Pattern I know it’s devastating, but that’s just how purling is spelled. Sometimes I’ll have moments where I’ll pretend it’s “pearl” and everything seems a little more glamorous. You’ll practically feel like a chemist once you master the knitting shorthand. Ex: “K1. (K2tog. K5) 9 times. 55 sts.” Bad. Ass. Stick with It You may reconsider your decision to take on this project when your hands start to Charlie horse. Perhaps you’ve grown delirious from recounting your stitches a total of 82 times. Or maybe you just wish Gram was here to help show you how to fix your dropped stitch(es). But, you made it this far. Your “hat” is just going to have a lot of character. Love Your Finished Product—And Your Grandma Shaping the top was a B-word but you did it. You even added a pom-pom because why the hell not. Now put on your hat, take yourself to Target, and own your latest accessory. Then call Grandma and find out where she got her magic needles. Spoiler alert: It’s your Gram who’s magic, not her needles. She plucked the puff softly from the earth, the seeds fluttering as she brought the fragile ball close. She inspected the fuzz, like eyelashes, and let them tickle her lips.
More than anything, she wanted this wish to come true. It's now or never, she thought. She untucked her wish from its hiding place in her heart, smiled a little smile, then took a breath. |
Eva NienhouseArchives
October 2018
Categories |