A couple of weeks ago, Catherine took Liam to get his haircut. He, at eighteen months of age, came home with a mohawk. When he walked in the door, my heart sank. And then I reminded myself that I need to learn to "pick my battles." Like the battle of whether or not he should wear shoes to the playground on a rainy day when it's 45 degrees outside (never mind it's RAINING out and who goes to a playground when it's raining anyway). Or the battle of whether or not it is a good idea for him to have a lollipop as an appetizer before dinner. Or whether or not it's ok to LEAVE HIM IN A RUNNING CAR WHILE SHE RUNS BACK INSIDE TO GET A FEW THINGS.
Realizing all of this, I said what any other grandmother would say in choosing her battles. "Welcome to White Trash, USA." To which she replied, "All the mothers at the mall who saw it said, 'Look at the baby with the mohawk!'"
"And you think that was a compliment?"
"Of course. Liam is a trendsetter."
"Mohawks went out in the 70s," I say. "I think he's a little late on blazing that trail."
I try to keep my apparent neuroses in check when it comes to this darling child. But, possibly because my husband and I had Liam with us for a couple of months on our own, and possibly because both Liam and Catherine lived with us for quite awhile, it deepens the bond and the desire for all good things for both of them. Druck and I can't plead ignorance, because we see them almost everyday.
My brother put it succinctly: Wait until she gets him a tattoo. To which I replied, "Oh God."
What this relationship has borne in me is a huge fascination for genetics. Because, if you were to throw me around and knock me senseless for awhile and then introduce me to this woman who is allegedly my daughter, I'd say, "And you have twelve eyes, none of which are used for seeing." I have spent a little time thinking back to the day of her birth and a few days following, wondering if she was switched with my real child - the one who is like me: the one who never talked back, did all of her homework, went to catechism every Saturday morning, and slept with but SHRIEK! one man, and that man being SHRIEK! her husband. But, no, Catherine must be mine. She has some of my quirks. She looks strikingly like my brother in his younger years. She has her father's feet. And, while she has the mouth of that truck driver I passed on I-94 a few weeks back, I acknowledge that she quite possibly gets that from my mother (a rare occurrence with mom but when it happened, hoo boy...). Aside from all of those familial characteristics, I have often told myself that she can't be mine. Truth of the matter is, she is mine. And I love her deeply.
Over the years, she has challenged me in every way possible and I am certain that, within the next week or so, she will come up with a new one for me - one that I will be blindsided with and will not be prepared for in any way, shape or form. Sometimes I feel like I am fighting a demon, trying to outwit, outsmart and outmaneuver her before she gets the best of me. But Catherine does, indeed, present some form of demonhood that is not her fault. She suffers from a personality disorder that she (and we) must learn to work with and try to acclimate to because it seems to change like a bad virus from one year - or month or day or hour - to the next.
I have hope that I can set aside the little battles, like the mohawk, and the questions about what are my thoughts on using Baby Tylenol as a mood stabilizer, etc. Regular and loving instruction for the things that really matter is what counts. And, by the way? I won the Baby Tylenol battle (at least I truly think I did).
I am grateful to see my daughter and grandson everyday so that I can erode those demons, face them head on and fight them with her, always trying to keep her (and Liam) on a safe path. In the end, mostly what it is about is patience. And, always, it is about love. And, at the very least, it is not about a mohawk. Because mohawks grow out and no one died from playing in the rain or from prefacing dinner with a lollipop. There are bigger fish to fry in this saga called Life.
Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma
