By Mel Cooke, Freelance Writer
DEAR DIARY,
Mommy's home, Mommy's home, Mommy's home, to stay.
A yippie kayay and a yippie kawoah! C is home! C is home! C is home!
Diary, there I was, after two months in the wilderness, saddled up at the airport with my two hampers - read Mansie P and Rinnie Bug - one on the left, one on the right waiting, not to signal the plane but to welcome C.
And we waited. And we waited. And we... OK, you got the idea.
And we waited some more.
Frankly, it got to be a bit of a drag. There you are all wired up for this grand moment when ye old nose of legendary proportions and ye ol' locks of increased length make their way down the passage and all you do is try to beat mosquitoes and keep two fidgety kids, if not happy, at least from squalling.
But Diary, when C came through, in hotty stretch pants and a huggy huggy top, it was well worth the wait. More than. Who remembered skeeters and spilt juice?
Heck, who remembered Daddy? Arms up and teeth showing, they ran to C and left poor old Dads behind. Yu see, ungrateful? It wossara dan hobeah. Awoah.
It was and is so good to be back together again. Of course, the kiddos hogged all the time they could, but they had to sleep sometime so I got my squeeze in.
Oh yes, I got my squeeze in, Dear Diary (heh heh).
Diary, C carried back all these thingys, but one of them was the Dominican flag (you know, those souvenir desktop versions). Of course, Mansie and Rinsie seized it and they just knew it was 'Domamica flags'.
So there I was, a couple days after the grand re-entry, going down Trafalgar Road with the two scallies, when Mani said, "See Domamica flags dere!" To my surprise, when I looked up, there was the Dominican flag. Hmmm. As we went a little further, Rinsie said, "Shee Domamaca flagsh!" and pointed.
I looked at her enthusiastic face, looked at her finger, followed the imaginary line and, behold, I saw... the Cuban flag.
"Ahh, my Riziggy is so smart," I said, and rubbed her head.
ENCOURAGEMENT
SWEETENS LABOUR
Diary, the two scallies are progressing nicely. Mansie is at a new school and it seems to be doing wonders for her already. Yup, it was one excitement to get her new uniform and new this and that and pack her off to school. And, once again, the pickaninny just waltzed right in and got herself all ready and just sat there, without a thought for us poor traumatised parents. What the heck does she take this for? Doesn't she think she could at least pretend to be sad - for our benefit?
Sheesh!
Y'know, history really does repeat itself. C used to be called a little 'fariner' when she was a tot because she used to speak so properly (still does, when she desires). And here we are, at a second school for Mansie, and the teacher is asking if she was born abroad or spent some time there. Same thing happens when I take her to the pharmacy.
OOPS
Then, the lady who works there figures it out. "Does she watch cartoons a lot?" she asks. Yup, you got it.
Good to gone.
Diary, if it is one thing that Mansie has not inherited from her parents it is shyness. No sirree, Bob. She introduces herself all around and promptly corrects all who would call her 'little girl' or baby. "My name is Amani McLean Cooke," she informs them in rapid-fire style.
She has taken to calling us by our first names from time to time and Daddy has become 'Mel McLean Cooke'.
She knows her school's name too, but the name of the road where she lives escapes her. When I ask, 'Where do you live?', she just smiles and says 'here'.
Ah well.
Diary, there was a hollering and a whooping and a celebration in said house a couple weeks ago. There I was, having a shower, when the troop came trooping in. I looked around the curtain, to see three pairs of glowing eyes, about 86 teeth - and a green potty with, shall we say, fluid.
"Rinni got the potty!" C announced, and lo it was a celebration. Lo it was joy. Lo it was... oops, a couple accidents here and there, but she is getting it. So now Rinsie is officially the Queen of the Potty and loving it.
WHALE OF A TIME
Yu see encouragement? Yu see encouragement? Cho, nutten no beat day and that includes beating as well.
Rinnie is the toughie of the two, it would seem, but she has met her match in her cousin Kim. They play, all right, but a whack from Kim is a heck of a whack and Rinsie hastily retreats to a safe point, for a while -- just for a while.
They had a whale of a time at Zarah's birthday party, Mansie running up and down with the older boys. I was being hassled by a passle of seven-year-olds when Mansi came to my rescue. "I have to go rescue my Daddy," she told C and co. That's just what she did.
My girl dat.
Diary, those two kiddos love medicine Histal, Cetamol, Panadol as long as it is liquid they will take it. Mansie had to stay home for a couple days because she was running a temperature and had a cough. Fair enough. But here is Rinnie crying for some. I tell her she can't have it because she is not sick. You know what the kid does? She puckers up her mouth, looks me in the eye and starts one bout of coughing. Soun' real too, would have fooled me totally if I had not seen it with my own two peepers.
Durn.
So I let her taste the spoon.
Encouragement, encouragement...
Rinsie is clamouring to go to school, so much so that I dressed Mansie's in her old uniform, sweeping to the ground and all. She loves it. There is just one thing. "Ma shneakers! Ma shneakers," she says. And, when I take her to school with me to pick up Mansie, she peeps around the classroom with such avid interest it breaks my heart to tear her away.
Next year baby, next year. After all, you just became all of two years old.
Hmmm. My babies are growing up, and so are we all, Dear Diary.
