Don't Cry For Me 2

This is Part 2, of two parts.
You will be better served to start with part one.

Don't Cry For Me, Part Two

We were expected at a baby shower on Sunday in Connecticut. By “we”, I mean the girls and me. This struck me from the beginning as odd: kids at a baby shower? Why?

I am old school I guess and also, truth be told, pretty much despise all these rites of passage. My mother was happy to make my own shower a simple event – it was small and fast. It was a gesture, a loving one, and nothing else.

Things have changed since then. Things are bigger now. Even unwed, unemployed, overeducated 33-year-old sisters in law who choose to get pregnant can enjoy the windfall of a baby shower. It's a major big deal; they wanted my kids there. In some ways, it was less important that I attended, and more important that I attended with my kids. I don't really understand that but I obliged.

So the girls and me climbed into the car. We stopped to rent movies; I downloaded a great book. This ride would be amazing. And it was. Until…

The breakdown. What a beat down. We were stuck at the gas station for 3+ hours. There were no tow trucks that could haul the kids and me too. We eventually got a cab to an airport (40 minutes away and out of the way) and rented a car. We were fueled by peanut M&Ms and lemonade, but we got to my sister’s eventually. Got there at 7:30. Left my house at noon. It should have been a three hour trip.

But wait! It gets better. Upon arriving at my sisters, we discovered that R has lice. (Should I capitalize that word: LICE?)

The last time we were at my sister’s house – it was Xmas night – the Giant Three Year Old puked all over the guest room. My sister, she never bats an eye, never freaks out, just lends a hand, throws a load in the wash, cracks open beers for us. She was the one scoping through R’s head and applying the olive oil. She was the one who took care of it all.

We made it to the Shower, though R’s hair was still soaked in grease we couldn’t get out and she hardly looked the showpiece. I cannot imagine what all the relatives thought of her or me. So much for parading your kids…

When we returned home (well after bedtime), I bathed R again: three times in vinegar, and then in the shower for a regular shampoo, and finally with the CVS shampoo that would nix it all.

When it was done, I tucked that little trooper in her bed at last, and he and I shook out our own psychosomatic itchies. Satisfied and exhausted, we plunked down on the couch for what was left: the news.

A woman my age and two tiny children suffered car troubles. No one knows what happened next or why, but each was hit and killed by oncoming traffic. I cried when I heard the news, when I saw their faces on the television, when I listened to the Gramma so much in shock that she was eloquent – her pain so poignant, it was unknowable even to her.

It reminds me to remind you:

Don’t cry for me.