Bedtime Story

CHAPTER ONE

Once upon a time, there was a family. A mother, a father, and three sisters.

CHAPTER TWO

Shit happened. Repeatedly.

CHAPTER THREE

Then one day, many years later, one of the sisters opened her door (her arms her heart), and there on the doorstep was another sister's (four-year-old terrorized) grandchild.

The sister whose porch it was bolted the door behind her, got an unlisted phone number, and cleared a space on the upstairs bookshelf for "Mother Goose." She rolled up her sleeves (her carpet her novel-in-progress) and rid the (terrorized) baby's long brown hair of generations of lice, and wiped the (terrorized) baby's frightened brown eyes of generations of tears, and introduced the (terrorized) baby to a black-and-white dog and a green backyard and a yellow bedroom, and settled in and waited for the terror to subside.

An ongoing process, as it turns out.

Time passes. Seven-and-a-half years, to be exact.

The (formerly terrorized) baby is now a Willful. Smart. Funny. Affectionate. Difficult. Beautiful. Angry. Conflicted. Adolescent. With an attitude. Who makes life for those around her Interesting. Exhausting. Extreme. Exhilarating. Challenging. Sometimes miserable. Often unpredictable. Always enlightening. Who breaks their balls and their hearts. Repeatedly.

Call it the "Cliff Notes" version. Call it a "Fractured Fairytale" for the 21st Century.

Call it what happens when the shit hits the fan.

Speaking of which.

CHAPTER SEVEN-AND-A-HALF

My life is shit.

Last Friday, I'm shopping for shoes at The Mall. I'm sitting, minding my own business, waiting for the salesperson to bring my size, when I catch a distinct whiff in the general vicinity of my personal whereabouts. After discreetly checking around, sure enough, I discover it right there on the sole of my left flipflop: a big smear of dogshit.

Then earlier this week, I'm staggering through my sixth day at my new job teaching preschool. I'm circling the room like a shark, doing my rounds, making sure the little darlings aren't maiming one another with the dollhouse furniture, when I catch a distinct whiff in the general vicinity of little Johnny. After discreetly checking around, sure enough, I discover it right there on the seat of his OshKosh ByGoshes: a big smear of kidshit.

Then there's my daughter.

I don't know about you all, but I never gave this kind of lip to my parents at this age. How can I say this...it never even occurred to me to give this kind of lip to my parents at this age. Put it another way...it simply wasn't an option to give this kind of lip to my parents at this age. Not that I was a Pollyanna. It's just that I wore my attitude on the inside. And my father wore his on the outside. Things were very, very clear around our hacienda.

I ask other mothers about this lippy behavior in children, and they're all, Oh that's just the way kids are these days! And I'm all, What the...but this is not acceptable! Half of them roll their eyes in agreement. The other half stare blankly at me, then go back to planning their 32nd birthday parties.

Not that I expect a Donna Reed household. I don't even want a Donna Reed household. On the other hand, I don't want to have to call in Max Von Sydow to do an exorcism.

The thing about my daughter is, it's complicated. Like, how much of this...attitude...is typical adolescent insanity. And how much is due to the fact that, as a baby, we found her under a rock.

Well, not exactly.

Actually, we found her on the doorstep. In a basket, with a note: "Incoming."

Well, not quite.

Actually, the Gypsies found her. And sold her to us.

Hmmm.

The truth is, we found her in California. Where she was born. I was in another state at the time. And have been ever since.

EPILOGUE

By a certain age, most people have figured it out that everything is cyclic. Stories. Lives. Campfire smoke. Bodyweight. Someone breaks your heart, you'll break somebody else's further on down the line. You can count on it. It's the Nature of Things. There's no beginning, no "Once Upon A Time," no ending. It's all the same continuous narrative, looping back on itself. Repeatedly. Forever. From the cellular level on up.

Speaking of which.

Is it true that the cells in our bodies completely replace themselves every seven years? Make that seven-and-a-half. I heard this somewhere, a long time ago. I don't know if it's true, but I'd like to think so. Who wouldn't? It speaks of redemption. Second chances. Hell, it speaks of tenth and twelfth chances. It lets us say things like, I've changed, I'm not the same person. Or, Next time it will all be different, just wait and see. And for once, every time we say such a thing, it will be the truth.