On Saturday, it is Girls Day and I know I should be spending this time in my basement, digging through the mouse poop, years of dust and boxes of Buddha knows what to retrieve the Japanese dolls that were given to the Diva when she was born. This is not because I have some deep connection to my cultural roots but because I know my Mom will repeatedly leave me messages on my home and cell phones to remind me to do so. She will also remind me to buy mochi, set up sake and get a Girls Day shirt from Marukai for the Diva to wear (even though the Diva hasn't done so since she started choosing her own wardrobe and veto-ing anything selected for her by a family member without her tacit pre-approval). Of course, I will not remember to do any of those things unless an overwhelming pang of Mommy Guild (and Daughter Guilt) hits me in the morning.
Many of my close friends have only sons and will tell me how envious they are of me because I have a daughgter. I just smile and tell them how my lovely daughter told Oscar the Grouch not to breathe around her because "your nose makes annoying sounds". I share the heart-warming story of having to change clothes for a school meeting last night as my beautiful girl told me, "Oh, please do not wear that shirt to school where people might see you. You look so sloppy and inappropriate!" Let's not even get into the verbal beat down I got when my daughter's little clique of pubescent TMZ-reporters in training told her about my comedic performance as "Aunty Manpower" complete with tacky aloha print muumuu, straw hat, plastic leis and the pidgin accent that I spoke when I was the teacher's helper for the "Fundamentals of English" class (one specifically geared to muscle bound athletes) back in public high school.
Let's just say, now that she is 13, sometimes it is difficult to remember that once, she was a sweet, kind and gentle little girl - all sugar and no spice. Granted, that period lasted for only an hour after her birth, until the medication from the epidural wore off. Once she was no longer under the influence of man-made chemicals, the Diva made her debut and established her position as the annointed first born child. The Professor has never forgotten that she was three minutes older as she constantly reminds him of this whenever the situation calls for it. He also bears a reminder of her dominance - a footprint from her embedded in the back of his head that has been there from birth. My OB said that it was the first time he saw such a thing in twins (although our friend's son was born with a cauliflower ear due to his twin sister repeatedly whacking him in utero).
The inner womb bossiness continued when we brought the twins home and they shared one crib. We'd hear the Professor crying and would see that the Diva had "accidentally" rolled over too far and pinned him against the side of the crib. As he howled with his face smashed against the railings and her feet firmly pressed against his back, she looked up at us with a chillingly frightening smile. Even plastic or cloth dividers did not stop the incidents from occurring. When we moved them to a full sized mattress on the ground, the Professor would still end up pinned face against the wall or planted face-first on the floor while she happily spread out over the remaining 99% of the mattress. Even now, she takes the front seat while the poor Professor is jammed in the back, trying to find breathing room surrounded by one brother, three dogs, a bassoon, groceries, several cases of empty soda bottles and enough socks to stock a Foot Locker.
As they grew older, the poor Professor continued to bear the brunt of her tyrades, both purposeful and accidental. At age three, she picked up a golf club and on the back swing, socked the Professor right in the eye. He had to wear a patch and for weeks, whenever we went out in public, people would give us stink eye because he looked like a child abuse victim. Plus, telling people that he was injured because he walked into a golf club swung by his toddler twin made thing even more suspect. It also didn't help that about the same time, she had a huge bandaid under her chin because she had to get stiches when she fell onto the garden hose faucet. When the Mad Cow was born, the Diva had her own 23-7 Cheering Squad. He worshipped her and followed her around like the Beilliebers flock to Justin Beiber. She could to no wrong and she knew it.
However, she was also very protective of the two boys. Being the tough kid of the bunch, if every someone bullied or hassled one of the boys, she would take care of things as quickly, quietly and cleanly as the best Gotti Family hitman. With the attitude of "Nobody bothers my brothers, except me", she would deliver her messages of warning with a steely glare and a voice as cold as ice, "You'd better lay off of him or you'll have to answer to me. You don't want to see me again, do you?" she'd tell the terrified evildoers with words that could have come from an Emmy award winning Sopranos script. As you can guess, the next day, the bad guys were suddenly very friendly to the Mad Cow and Professor.
Sometimes, in the midst of one of her hormonally fueled rants, I remember how I fell in love with her the first time I saw her because she looked like a hapa version of my Grandma Tsuruyo, My parents both worked when I was a kid so most of my time was spent with my Grandma who taught me how to cook plantation style meals, make jelly from scratch, put together a Buddhist altar spread within minutes and quoted from the Young and the Restless when it came to life lessons. Now that I think of it, perhaps my current path as a massage therapist evolved from the hours spent massaging my Grandma as we watched CBS soap operas or listened to the KZOO radio show.
What is really strange is that the Diva has many of the character quirks that my Grandma had. My Grandma hid money under her mattress and in her underwear drawer, so does the Diva. My Grandma saved used gift wrapping paper and ribbons, so does the Diva. My Grandma could nap for hours and still complain of being tired, so does the Diva. I'm sure if the Diva one day decided to step into the kitchen, she would save the used aluminum foil and used Zip-loc bags like my Grandma. In Jewish tradition, you name your child in honor of the last person to pass away in the family. Perhaps it is no mere coincidence that the Diva does these things like my Grandmas since her middle name (Kamanu or "the bird") and Jewish name were selected to honor my Grandma whose name means Crane.
The thing about having a daughter is that you are filled with so many worries that you may not have for your son. I worry that because she is so physically beautiful that people will underestimate her intelligence, failing to see how bright and witty she is. I worry because while she has a tough demeanor, she is really soft and empathetic inside. She will help anyone that she feels is downtrodden, even if that person has been mean to her or treated her bady in the past. Many times she has returned home upset because her attempt to help a frenemy in need came back to bite her in the okole. I worry that because she is humble at heart and downplays her talents so as not to seem like a show off, she will turn her back on the gifts that Buddha has given her. When she gets a major role in a play for example, she never gloats or seems overly happy about it. Instead, she is wracked with concern over friends who did not make the cut or not wanting anyone to feel bad about her singing ability.
Yes, I do also worry about the standard things parents of daughters worry about - boys breaking her heart, getting a call from MTV that she wants to be on "Teen Mom", her penchant for buying underwear from Pink and not Sam's Club, making sure she chooses to go to the Mainland for college and not UH so she does not live with us for 4 more years, and the inevitable hoochification of her wardrobe.
When the kids were little, we read a book called "I'll Love You Forever" about a mother who cuddled her child at night and recited this poem to him, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be". When the boy becomes a man, the mother breaks into his house and carries him while he is sleeping, reciting the poem to him. The kids would always laugh at this part and comment how the mom was a criminal, stalker or just plain nuts. I on the other hand understood this need to stay connected, even if if involved burglary and destruction of property. At night, when I think the Diva is asleep, I open the door to her bedroom and make my way through the maze of dirty clothing (and sometimes undiscovered Rookie poop) just so I can look at her. I don't say the words of the poem because I know that might wake her up and I'll never get out of her room alive because she'll kill be for being "such a wierdo". But in my heart, I know that as long as I'm living, my baby she'll be.
I love you Diva and I promise to not breathe around you as much as possible.
