"Hey look at this!" says Rissa. She's just received her "prize" pack for selling a shit-load of magazines subscriptions for her school fund raiser. They give the kids a bag chock full of items they must get in bulk from higher end dollar stores. They're all pretty much craptastic, but it is, after all, a loot bag - it doesn't matter.
Her favourite item? A rubber ball attached to an elastic string.
"Look! Look!" She whacks it against the wall and comes back to her. "Oh yeah! I can do this ALL BY MYSELF!" She whacks it again and does a spin in the air before catching it. "Yeah, baby!! This it the perfect toy for an only child. I could be the poster child for this toy!"
Whack... catch. Whack... catch. Whack... catch.
She whacks it harder and somehow it becomes a weapon rather than a toy. It doesn't come back to her, but instead careens off a secondary and then tertiary wall, scaring all three cats and making me duck all before it comes back to whack her in the head.
"It's okay... I'm alright. I'm ALRIGHT. Do not panic... But if I had a sibling who actually lived with us, it might be easier to play ball."
This morning, Rissa experiences our friend Leslie's homemade jam for the first time. She has two pieces of toast - each sporting Leslie's gourmet jam. Strawberry balsamic on one, peach bourbon vanilla bean on the other.
She sits for a moment in front of her plate of toast. "I am about to have a jam moment Mummy."
"Excellent. You won't be disappointed."
She takes a bite, and then another, and another...
"This... this..." Rissa's eyes are wide with pleasure. "I have never experienced anything like this in my life. This is the best jam ever. This jam gave me an epiphany - you know what it was? To eat more jam. It was a jampiphany!! You know when the end of the world will be? When we run out of these jams. I am now a jam connoisseur! Eating these jams has opened a whole new world of opportunities! Jamportunities!!! What am I going to do when the jam runs out?!?"
She hyperventilates for a moment.
"What if you make the jam Rissa?"
"...Maybe... But I think maybe I would prefer to receive the jam, rather than make it myself."
"What if you became one of those judges at the county fair and only judged the jam?"
She gasps with excitement. "That would be THE BEST JOB EVER!!"
It's Rissa's bedtime witching hour, when she winds up instead of down,
when she giggles and plays instead of succumbing to slumber.
"Psssssssst.... do you see this tiny pocket?? It's wee!"
She has this thing for pockets. Wee pockets in particular. She likes
to draw your attention to them - to share her love of pockets.
Victoria's Secret makes these thermal long underwear jammies... they have pockets. Rissa and I have a both have a pair. Me in a large - Rissa in an extra-small. Rissa's bottoms fit her in length for about 6 minutes before her legs grew again.
She began mumble-singing. Hmmmmmm-hummmming a tune that I couldn't quite hear. She was turning this way and that. Showing her back and then her front. I put my book down.
Rissa, with her tailend waggling towards me, "Bum pocket." She jumped around and pointed to her chest. "Boob pocket." Turning again, "Bum pocket." And once more, "Boob pocket." A quick jump around, "Bum Pocket!" Another full leap, "BOOB POCKET!!"
Then the inevitable crash onto the bed - snorting with laughter - laughing until she gives herself the hiccups. I love bedtime.
It was a beautiful sunny Sunday. The kitchen was brightly lit - we soaked up the Vitamin D. We were taking a break from our packing... David and I were enjoying fried eggs on toast and had called up to Rissa to come down for lunch. Eventually she came into the kitchen, grabbed a juice box and turned on the overhead lights.
David and I shared a look. The kitchen has 5 windows - each of them is 18 x 50 inches... It was a sunny day.
"Ummmm.... Riss?"
"Yes?"
"I'm thinking that maybe we don't need the lights on right now."
Rissa looked around. Looked out the windows. Looked at us. Her head slumped as she slowly rose. She slouched over to the light switch and flicked them off petulantly. "Fine. Fine. I'll just turn off the lights and drink my juice in the dark then." She made a show of searching for the juice box straw.
"Do you want to use my knife for your egg?" I held it out. "Can you see it? Careful... I mean, seeing as it's so dark.. Here you go..."
Rissa grabbed for it - deliberately failing several times. "No, I couldn't see it." Rissa denied vehemently. "I almost stabbed my eye out because it's so dark in here."
"Mummy, do you know where the plastic container with the clicking lid is?"
"No. I do not. I'm not sure where it went. Maybe Daddy took it to school."
Rissa sighs deeply. I barely hear her say, "I call her 'Clicky'."
"Pardon me?"
Rissa now speaks loudly and clearly. "I call her 'Clicky'."
"Did you just say that you call the container 'Clicky'?
"I call HER 'Clicky'!"
"Sorry. This container is a girl?"
"Yes, she is a girl. Don't judge my love!"
"I'm not judging..."
"You don't know what we have together..." I think at this point, Rissa flings an arm up to demonstrate her heightened emotional state.
"You are completely right. I DO NOT know, nor do I understand, the relationship that you have with the, uh... plastic container you have dubbed 'Clicky'. Not that there is anything wrong with that."
Still doing her best Garbo, Rissa exclaims, "Why can't you support my choices?"
Then she dissolves into snorting laughter. In betweeen snorts, "Today will be a laughing day, I can just tell!"
"Awesome."
"Every time I laugh today, I will do a different laugh."
"You do that little thing."
"I will!" She then lets out a burst of mad scientist mania.
"This?" She does her best impersonation of a bucktoothed gopher with a cold.
"This?" She looks like she's been hit in the head with a shovel at her left jawline - lips all askew across her face.
"This?" She sticks her tongue out slightly and rolls her eyes back in her head.
"Or THIS." She puff out her cheeks like she a blowfish - eyes wide and glassy.
"You are so weird."
"Yes, but which is better? You need to rate them on a scale of 1 to 4. 4 being the best and 1 being the worst. Oh wait - plus there's this one too!" She drops her jaw, scrunches her nose and crosses her eyes.
"On a scale of 1 to 4? But there are five faces now!"
My spoonful of Rice Chex stops an inch from my mouth. "Because why?"
"Because I don't eat cereal."
I shoot her a disbelieving glance before shoveling my cereal into my mouth. I chew thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing. Then I shake my head. "I don't get it."
"Everybody eats cereal for breakfast," she says. "Everybody. I'm like the only one who doesn't. They say 'What do you eat?!?' And I say 'Toast.' And they look at me like I'm crazy. And even if I did eat cereal it'd be Raisin Bran, which NOBODY eats. Cereal on its own is fine, but cereal with milk is... bluuuuuuuugghhhhhh." She shudders. "It gets all wet and..."
"Every cereal - it happens to every cereal," I say, the sense memory suffusing my very being. I shovel in another still-crisp spoonful of Rice Chex before it disintegrates.
"Not Captain Crunch," says David. "That cereal can lacerate your mouth after it's been in milk for a full half hour. I still have scars." I'm certain that he's feeling out the roof of his mouth with his tongue.
"No, I'm thinking more of Shredded Wheat," I say. "You know. You use your spoon to cut that little cross down the middle of it and you sprinkle brown sugar on it and then it's a race from the time you pour the milk on it before it morphs into mushy paste. You have about 30 seconds where it's slightly moist but still somewhat crunchy. I'm convinced that's why I always eat my breakfast quickly because on a cellular level I'm afraid it'll turn into mushy cereal paste."
"I'm pretty sure cereal is just a North American thing" David postulates.
I give it a think. "Yeah... I bet you the French don't eat cereal - they probably baguette it all the way. And the Swiss - they're more granola types."
Rissa perks up. "Granola? Like what you get on top of a yogurt parfait?" She loves a yogurt parfait.
"Yes! Exactly like that! You can have that! Then you can be all cosmopolitan and say, 'I have granola with Greek yogurt.' And you can give them a high class glance over one shoulder and raise your eyebrows and know that your taste is far superior to theirs."
Friday night. Bedtime. Rissa wriggles spasmodically under her blankets.
"I've got something in my pants!"
Sigh. "What do you have in your pants?"
"A sliver or something!"
"A sliver? How can you have a sliver?"
"I don't know, maybe from the dance studio."
Stalling. She is stalling the bedtime process.
"Just ignore it."
"Ignore it?!? ... IGNOREit?!? If I had a Chihuahua in my pants would you tell me to just IGNORE it? Would you tell me to worry about it in the morning?!?"
"WHAT?"
"Seriously, what if it was a... cannibalistic Chihuahua...?"
"WHAT?"
"If it was a cannibalistic Chihuahua... and there was... was... say a Golden Retriever... NO! A GREAT DANE down there too..."
"You're telling me that there is now a Chihuahua and a Golden Retriever AND a Great Dane in your pants?"
"No, only a cannibalistic Chihuahua and a Great Dane - I needed complete opposite dogs to make an example. Plus, after I said the word 'cannibalistic' I realized that the chihuahua couldn't be attacking me, I had to have another dog down there for it to attack."
"So you have a Chihuahua and a Great Dane in your pants?"
She then rolls her eyes at me. "Of course not, but if I DID, you would just want me not to worry about them in my pants?"
For instance... according to my daughter, these are the signs for "Uterus Falling Out."
Apparently last year, in Grade 7, Rissa
and her friends figured it out so that they could torment the boys. I
don't know how accurate it is in ASL, but I'll be signing it myself from
now on. Above Rissa exhibits the commiserative face during the signing, but it can also be done with the angry face.
"New career path Mummy! No longer will I be a chiropractor or massage therapist. I will now be... a NINJA. My catch phrase shall be "You will never see me coming!" From her position lying in the bed, Rissa launches herself up at me, pulling me flat against her chest, her arms iron bars against my back. "See? You didn't see me coming!" Releasing me, she takes a deeply satisfied breath. "I'll have a cool ninja name too. Like Lotus Flower or Turtle Swan..."
"Turtle swan...?"
She mimes the action of a turtle retreating into its shell before morphing into a swan. "Does this look like a turtle swan? Or more like a frog elephant?"
"Hard to say."
"Or maybe I'd be more like Ninja who attacks at dusk because she has a curfew... or Ninja who attacks before dawn so that her parents don't know what she's up to and she has time to change before going to school... "
She gets a crazed glint in her eye. "You'll never see me coming!!!!" She grabs me again, clutching me tightly to her torso once more.
Trapped in the crook of her neck, I manage a muffled, "I totally saw you coming!"
"No you didn't."
"I'm thinking that you might want to go with the catch phrase AFTER the attack."
"If you had a fake laugh what would it be?" Rissa asks as we're walking to her dance studio. (We have one car, David takes it to school, if David's late at work, we have to figure transportation shit out. Rissa opted for the walking option instead of biking. This happened half way through our 15 minute walk.)
"Beg your pardon?"
"We all need a fake laugh! You know, if you had to pretend that you thought something was funny, when you didn't really think it was funny - what kind of laugh would you have? Would it be... you know... (she trills) "Heee-heeee-heeee-heeee-heeee... or... (she brays) "AW-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW..." or (she snorts) "Giggle-giggle-snort-giggle..." or (she blarts) "Huh! HUUUUUUHH! Huh-huh-huh..." or... (she machine guns) "Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh..."
I shoot her a look.
"My brain just thinks of these things. Sometimes I even confuse myself. I'm saying this because so and so's brother laughed and I honestly thought it was a fake laugh. I laughed because his laugh was so ridiculous. And that got me to thinking. You have to have a fake laugh. Just in case. You know, for emergencies."
"I'd have to go for the Katharine Hepburn/Philadelphia Story laugh."
She looked dumbfounded. Dear GOD, she didn't know who Katharine Hepburn was. I had failed her as a parent. She'd never seen The Philadelphia Story. She didn't understand the brilliance of casting Cary Grant, Jimmy Steward and Katharine Hepburn as the three corners in a near-perfect screwball comedy triangle. It was then I made a solemn vow to educate her, as we should all educate our children in classic cinema - we shall batten down the hatches and make a weekend of it.
Yellls Rissa as she flops down beside me in bed this morning. She is VERY excited.
I stifle a yawn, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
"October 1st, huh?"
"YES!!!"
"And October is a good month?"
"It's the BEST month!!! First off, there's TURKEY DAY (Canadian Thanksgiving is coming up in approx 12 days). Then, there's the day AFTER Turkey Day where you get to make TURKEY SANDWICHES!! Then the new book in the Divergent series - ALLEGIANT -comes out!! Then there is the DANCE STUDIO HALLOWEEN PARTY and then... (she can barely contain herself) ...
IT'S HALLOWEEN!!!!
She leaps out of bed, skipping and singing, continuing her morning.
I don't know if it's ALL nature vs nurture or vice versa. But I DO knowthat perfectionism is genetic. Rissa got her perfectionist streak directly from her father's side of the family... from her paternal grandmother to her father to her. From the ages of two to about seven, Rissa would melt down when she couldn't complete a task. She was unwilling to fail at anything. If she couldn't get it on the first try, that child imploded. She wasn't much of a tantrum thrower, but man that kid could simply refuse to communicate. She would hide behind chairs, tables, simply close her eyes to shut you out. The stubborn crossing of the arms stance was a staple reaction for my kid.
I remember her, age four, at AirZone. AirZone was one of those party places with jumpy castles, big slides and obstacle courses. Rissa was determined to go down the 20 foot slide. DETERMINED. It was a big frickin' slide. She got all excited and climbed to the top of that monster slide. Then she looked down the slide and understandably panicked. It was a LONG way down. She sat at the top of that slide for a good 15 minutes, letting child after child after child in front of her.
"Rissa sweetie, you don't have to go down honey. Just climb down the ladder. It's okay hon."
"NOOOOOOO!"
"Sweetie, it's okay. Just climb down the ladder..."
"No Mummy! NOOOOOOOO!"
I couldn't take it any more. My heart was about to burst. There was my little girl sitting up at the top of that slide quietly sobbing, mumbling to herself like some some sort of JK schizophrenic. I climbed up and went down with her - even though it was against the rules. The minute we reached the bottom, she climbed up again to the top, still determined that she would go down on her own.
"Sweetie, you don't have to do this. This is a big kids' slide..."
"Mummy I want to!"
"Then just go ahead and do it!"
"I want to!"
"You can do it!" I put on my best RAH! RAH! voice.
"I want to... "
"You can..."
"I want to... BUT I CAN'T!!!!!"
There might as well have been a pit of rabid, slathering Hounds of Hell, covered in barbed wire at the bottom of that slide, instead of a safe, bouncy landing - she was petrified. Desperate to go down, but terrified of the drop. Other parents in the joint looking at me like I'm torturing my kid. Don't look at me! I don't need her to go down the slide! This is ALL her. I am just a terrified bystander.
45 minutes we waited it out. Her yelling occasionally from the top, me doing my best to keep my voice calm and give her support. The backs of my legs were bruised from where I had wedged them so firmly under my chair seat to stop me from leaping up to rescue her. See, I'd said that I wouldn't come get her again. I'd drawn the line in the sand. Was it the wrong line in the sand? Probably. I should have probably climbed up again, hefted her under one arm and left the building, but for whatever reason, this rite of passage seemed to mean more to her than being the focus of attention for all the patrons of AirZone, so I was all in.
And sure enough after that 45 minutes and countless "I WANT TO... BUT I CAN'TS!!!", she went down. ONCE.
"I'm so proud of you sweetie! Good for you!!" How was I supposed to play this now? Do I encourage a second trip down? Do I just zip my lip? Zipping the lip is never really my thing. "Do you want to....?" I left the end of the sentence hanging there, my tone ambiguous.
"No, Mummy. I'm good. I know I can do it now." Then she ran off to be a four year old again.
"Do you want to see what my navel can do?" We're in the grocery store. Rissa is in full-on lunatic mode. She has been tying bunny ears on all the bags of our vegetables. You know... so they'll be securely closed and it'll look like we have an entire cart full of transparent rabbits. (I really shouldn't be surprised. I think it's genetic. My father used to race down the aisles of grocery stores with the shopping cart, much to my mother's embarrassment.)
Apparently, Rissa's navel can climb buildings.
"What... it pops off your body, and all on its own...?"
"No! Noooooo! It has a Navel Squid, that can come out and use its suction cups you know, ON things."
"I think I need an example."
"Like this." Rissa's lifts up her shirt to expose her belly button and then she violently assaults my side with her stomach, making a sucking noise deep in her throat.
"It can also push shopping carts..." She detaches from my side and 'sucks' onto the handle of the shopping cart, pushing it forward with her abdomen, a low squelching noise accompanying her movement.
She is doing the a capella version of Broadway Here I Come from the second Season of Smash (the best and worst in T.V.), desperately trying to figure out the percussive accompaniment at the foot of her bed. She is clapping and snapping and stomping her feet. She should have been in bed at least 15 minutes ago.
"You need to get into bed. It is bed time now. Go to sleep."
Dejectedly, she climbs into her bed. I make to turn the light off.
"Wait! Wait! I need to just... please may I just have one tiny spaz out? Just a little one. Like for 18 seconds or so?"
"Fine. You may spaz out for 18 seconds."
She does her best Linda Blair impersonation for 18 seconds, then lies panting.
"You done?"
"International solvent!!"
"What?"
"International solvent in my nose to calm me down when I'm like this at bedtime!! I'd be all like... (she moves her head frenetically to and fro...)WHOA... HEY! WHOA...(She then mimes having something sprayed up her nose, her eyes roll back, her head falls to the side and she lets out a deep throaty snore.) "See? Like that."
"International solvent? Do you know what a solvent* is?"
"Yeah, it's like in nose drops or eye drops."
"Saline solution? Is that what you think you mean?"
"Yeah."
"Cause a solvent is generally something used to dissolve things, like to dissolve paint."
"Don't put that in my nose!" She is grasping my hands in hers, now panicked.
"I wasn't going to!"
"You can't put that in my nose! What if my brain got all..."
"You have to stop talking."
"I can't."
"You have to try."
"This towel is all wet from my hair, I'm going to die of hypothermia."
"You are not going to die of hypothermia..."
"What if the hypothermia..."
My words, now muffled, because I have buried my own head in the towel-covered pillow beside her, "Why won't you stop talking?"
"Because I love you?"
"I love you too. Now stop talking."
*I had to look it up. She was right.
sol·vent(slvnt, sôl-)
adj.
1. Capable of meeting financial obligations.
2. Chemistry Capable of dissolving another substance.
n.
1. Chemistry
a. A substance in which another substance is dissolved, forming a solution.
b. A substance, usually a liquid, capable of dissolving another substance.
2. Something that solves or explains.
A solvent could totally be used to dissolve her insanity at bedtime. It's like she's some sort of dada-esque savant.
The first week back to school was surprisingly easy. Disproportionate levels of ease. It was smoooooooth, it was cream cheese icing, it was James Brown.
This second week back to school is kicking our asses. We are so frickin' tired. It feels like we have a new baby or puppy in the house. We are devolving to amoeba state, fighting our urge to ooze across the floor in our exhaustion.
By middle of the first week back to school, Rissa had her first cold. (Because children, not fleas, are the plague carriers. Smiling, tow-headed tots will end the world. Take your vitamins. Wash your hands.) Rissa was sniffing and sneezing, blowing her nose, but as soon as I'd even glance sideways at her she'd be all, "I'b nod sick Mummy! I'b nod!" And yet, even with the cold, she was in fairly good spirits.
This week was her first week back to dancing full time. Having decided to enter the competitive dance world this year, Rissa is dancing 3 nights a week and all day Saturday. Last night my 13 year old daughter was at the dance studio until 9:45 p.m.Idon't like to be out at 9:45 p.m. on a weeknight. And here's the thing... Sure, she's done dancing at 9:45 - but she's not home until 9:55, finishes showering by 10:05 - and even if she lies in bed, she's still winding down from the exercise at 10:30. Teenagers need copious amounts of sleep. Buckets, bins, quarries full of sleep. It's been documented. In MEDICAL JOURNALS. She's running out of steam and it's only her first week back to dance. And I know, I know, there are tonnes of kids out there who are up much later and are much more scheduled in their exctra-curricular time than Rissa is, but I also know they're not MY kid. I know my kid. David and I share these raised eyebrow silent communications:
This isn't looking good. I know. She's going to lose it. I know. What are we going to do? See how this week goes, and then we rain fire down upon the dance studio? How about we have a discussion with the studio? And then we rain fire? You can carry the BBQ lighter if you like.
All this to say that I may have to put on my Parent Pants next week. With accompanying stern face. Sure, Rissa might look like she's 17, but she ain't. This morning she slept through her alarm. Which wouldn't usually be cause for alarm, except that Rissa has NEVER slept through her alarm. EVER. She prides herself on getting up early. (I pride myself on having a daughter who can get herself up in the morning.) And yeah, she wants to dance, but my job as a parent is to make sure that she's educated and challenged and happy, but most important healthy and can make it through her whole week. Not just school, not just homework, not just dance, not just (what is now laughingly referred to as) down time but EVERYTHING. If having her over-scheduled, even doing something she loves to do, makes the rest of her week tank? Something will have to give. And it ain't gonna be her, I'll tell you that.
Rissa was laughing... maniacally... behind my back. We were waiting for our luggage to be pulled from the storage room so that we could all pile into the van and head back home from our girls' dance weekend in Toronto.
"What are you doing?"
"I just totally licked your elbow and you didn't notice!"
"You did not."
"I DID!!!"
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"No way." I turned away only to have her dissolve into cackle once more.
"BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!"
"You didn't just..."
"I did SO just... BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!"
Thing is? When Rissa starts laughing like that? Those belly laughs? It's hard not to join in. I didn't know if she was lying or not, but man she was having fun on whatever crazy train she was riding, so I too, climbed on board. We were laughing so hard that the desk clerks started looking like they might ask us to vacate the lobby. We moved out into the valet parking area before the concierge picked up the phone to call the cops. As I was waiting to help load our luggage into the van, Rissa was again pitched into the throes of lunacy.
"I licked THAT elbow and then I licked THAT one right after - and you totally didn't feel it!! BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA!!!"
By the time we recounted her elbow licking rampage to David, Rissa had surreptitiously licked my elbow 7 times. There might have been a slightly cool feeling upon my funny bone, but not once did I catch her actually doing it.
So of course, in bed, I had to try it with David. But just thinking about it gave me the giggles.
"Don't even try it," he said.
I was laughing so hard by this time that I was snorting. "I won't. I won't." I tried to calm myself with deep cleansing breaths. "Besides, you'd be all prepared for it, so it wouldn't work."
"That's exactly right," he said, eyes half closed, one arm under his head. "I think that Rissa is making this up anyway." His elbow was out there... in the open... right there... inches away from me...
I held my breath, my eyes laser beams boring into his closed lids.
"This is just one of those things where an urban legend..."
"BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!!"
"You didn't!"
"I totally DID!! And it was awesome!"
We did have a stern conversation with Rissa before she left for school yesterday - letting her know that we didn't want to receive any phone calls from the Principal's office when she started licking strangers' elbows.
"Mummy. Please. I would only lick the elbows of people I know. Stranger licking is just gross."
We didn't realize for the longest time. She was masking it so well. She was coping. But it became apparent this morning that my daughter has... she has... dishwasher blindness. (sob) Comparable to night blindness, dishwasher blindness tends to hit at a much younger age.
Early signs of dishwasher blindness seem innocuous. Dinner ware might be left in unexpected places: the living room end tables, the backyard. The sufferer will become adept at depositing dirty dishes in the sink. You may find the dishwasher open but not loaded; conversely, a dishwasher full of clean dishes will not be unloaded.
When a full complement of breakfast dishes are left neatly stacked on the countertop above the dishwasher, it is too late. There is little hope for the sufferer - true dishwasher blindness will be diagnosed at this point. Strident physical therapy can help the process, but it will be a long road to recovery. Months, even years of conditioning may be required to help the sufferer strengthen the muscles it takes to open the dishwasher and the coordination to load dishes and cutlery into their respective places within the appliance.
You might think that you are alone, that your child or spouse is unique. Talking about the affliction, sharing one's own experience is the only way the general populace can be educated. Dishwasher blindness can happen to anyone at any point in their life. Recognize the signs before its too late.
From a distance, she looked like a cartoon character - those big white paws grabbing for the soccer ball in that massive net. It was kind of like watching Mickey Mouse as goalkeeper. She made some incredible saves and had some kick-ass kicks. When she was in net, my heart was in my throat. Under my breath, I may have threatened the safety of several 'Under 15' girls who seemed a little too 'gung ho' with their cleats around my little girl when she was reaching for the ball. Rissa ain't so little, but once a Mama Bear, always a Mama Bear.
After the post-game shaking of hands, she came off the field - looking a little ill. In fact, pretty much all the girls on the team looked like they were going to drop dead. It was 39 degrees with the humidex - I was worried that maybe she was suffering from heat exhaustion. I knew she shouldn't have played! It was too hot! She looked like she might puke. She staggered towards me. I reached out for her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.
"Mummy... Mummmy..."
"What is it sweetie?"
"My hands... My hands..."
"Yes, sweetie?" Oh God, I was going to have to take her the ER! She couldn't even speak properly! That's one of the signs of heat sickness!
"They... They..." She tottered a bit more. I grabbed her shoulders, steadying her. "MY HANDS SMELL LIKE FEET! They smell like (gag)... FEET!" She thrust the offending appendages near my nose and I too, almost woofed my cookies.
In the
2nd Half of the game, as goalkeeper, Rissa had worn the 'team' gloves... After another girl had sweat in them for the 1st half and
every other goalie on the team had sweat in them for the previous 6
games. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I don't think these gloves get washed. EVER. These were Satan's Gloves.
So yes, her hands did smell like feet. I smelled twice, because I couldn't believe how bad they were. Rissa, on the drive home, kept smelling them and fake gagging because she thought it was so frickin' hilarious.
l
v
nt, sôl
