I flew out to Chicago last Easter to spend some time with my daughter Emily and her family, which included my 2-1/2 year old grand daughter. Eve was putty in my hands. She let me feed her, bathe her, and put her hair in pony tails. 

Fast-forward a couple of weeks when my son Jacques and I flew back to see Paul Simon, again. We were greeted by Emily and Eve’s head buried in her Mama’s arm pit. She would not look our way. I coerced her out of the arm pit and lured her over to the turnstile. She put her arm around me as we played a made-up on the spot luggage game. You gotta have a gimmick. 

But the next day, if I didn’t cut her waffle into perfect squares and place the homemade guacamole in the right spot on the right plate, she had what I’d describe as TPA, a toddler panic attack, which includes lots of jogging in place. Come morning, she pulled out a pink pouch of hard candies which were really B-12 candies Emily sucked on to help her pregnancy nausea, and handed one to me. “Maw-Maw’s drinking her coffee right now,” I said as pleasantly as I could, and tried to explain how unappealing B-12 and coffee was as it was stuffed between my tightly-closed lips and down the hatch it went. 

Getting her up from a nap was a match like the likes of Cassius Clay versus Sonny Liston. Her piercing screams were those of murder and mayhem. She moved so quickly on that oh so low mattress and wound up lying on her back in a corner with her legs up on the wall where I couldn’t reach her, just like a dog under a house. Emily said with some pleasure in her voice, “Just make her Mom,” but there was nothing to grip, I told her in a pathetic voice unrecognizable to me.

The night before I left, I was determined to bathe her. She screamed and fought and kicked and threw all sorts of things at me. I never said a word. I only whimpered due to horrific back pain, but she had a bath. I pulled her out of the tub as she desperately clung to everything within reach, wrapped her in a towel, and handed her to her Mama. We both had wet hair, and I had a sopping wet shirt, soggy socks and no shoes. I don’t ever remember taking them off. 

I said to Emily as I handed her over,  “Here ya go. I feel like Annie Sullivan trying to make Helen Keller eat her supper in The Miracle Worker.” When I left the next day Emily said to Eve, “Give Maw-Maw a hug,” which she did, after which she said, “We don’t have to actually kiss.”  

I boarded the train with my newly acquired metro card, and as I lifted my bag up 10 flights of stairs I heard “Maw-Maw” from down below. It was Eve, escorted by her Daddy. I considered ignoring her, but she did show up, and I am 57 years older, so I waved and rode the train in to O’Hare then ordered a Bloody Mary with double Vodka and listened to The Bee Gees on my flight home.

 

PHYLLIS BELANGER MATA was born at the old Dauterive Hospital and grew up on Wayne Street. She is a 1974 graduate of Mt. Carmel Academy and is a chili dog “without the wiener” aficionado.