Telling the Kids. Oh yeah, and Charlie Sheen.

A few weeks back, I begin our typical Saturday to Boston from Uberbia. Zora awakes whenever the heck she likes, we eat vegetarian sausage, over-syruped, non-homemade waffles and drink carrot juice. She dresses in her best princess outfit over jeans, over a diaper, over whatever else she decides shed like to also wear, as they are all "must-haves" and she is a must-do kinda kid. We, as usual, are overdone.

I like to think we're genetically predisposed to being so.

We finally get out of the house, into the green car (which of our two, Zora refers to as her own) and drive to see Nana and Papa. My parents. I type this proudly as a little over two years ago, I certainly didn't think I'd refer to them so lovingly. But I do, and I am lovingly loving them.

But back to the today. So, Zora is happy. She hasn't seen Nana in days. She knows Nana will have her "interesting" concoction of a surprise for her: a bag of second-hand (if coffee and cigarette scented) surprises. Perhaps they'll be in a pillowcase; a reused lingerie bag; a gucci store canvas... it's always a surprise for us all. An endearing one. An expected one.

We pull up to the brownstone and Zora is giddy. Nana emerges from the doors; she isn't glowing. She isn't smiling. There is no bag.

Shit.

So, it began, Nana's first low day in 2 years since she's first laid eyes on her granddaughter, whom, in my mind I refer to as my mother's "cure". She has been on a high with love and affection for my little one, and most are: the kid is hilarious, engaging, and well, a bit overdone. She inspires the overdoneness in all. Which, is what she's done for my Mummi. Her Nana. Just perhaps not today.

Zora doesn't understand whats up, but she realizes its something. Now none of my bubbles are bubbling, not Zora, not her Nana.

So, I'm annoyed, and I don't navigate well annoyed. I try to get food, to coax them into a compliant happiness with music. I'm driving them from park to main street and realizing I'm getting miffed about lost gas. Which isn't the problem. It's just an off-day in all of our lives.

So I end it. I get Nana/Mummi some food, diabetic-friendly, no fructose, closer to the grain organic, which I'm not convinced anyone in her household will consume. I let everyone know the visit is going to need to come to its end. Politely. I love everyone, Drop Nana/Mummi off and drive a little bit faster than I should back home.

Zora, looking out the window in our now quiet car says: "Nana sick?"
Startled, I say "Yes baby"
Z: "Her head hurt?"
Me: "Yup. And maybe some other stuff does too."
Z: (long pause). "Oh. She need her doctor?"
"Perhaps sweetie she does"
Z: "Why?"

So, this is where it ends and begins. How to melt the reason why into something a 2.5 year old will get, will or won't share, will or won't ask me about constantly. And since she doesn't believe in Santa, does believe in princess magic, knows God makes everything including Mummah's purse and Noah's arc, I give her the best of a response I can offer:

"Baby, everyone is a little different. Nana too. Some days when Nana doesn't feel good; she sounds like she did today. Some days she doesn't. But we love her anyway. And we maybe love her more on these days. And she loves us all the time. But maybe something inside her doesn't feel good today."

In traffic. En route to our burbs, Zora's accepts this response, almost relieved by it. She falls asleep. We go home. I cry a little.
Ultimately though, its more than ok. We are as we are made.

I threw the Charlie Sheen piece in there for good measure.
But...Someone please help him now. He needs it. Perhaps now more than most times/most days.

And help doesn't come on a stage, it comes in a car, from a conversation with your kid, and a head-not towards your most humbled self.

Mine did.

-D