I remember when Chloe (aka Alice)…ok the cat’s out of the bag… but now that I’m trying to morph into (or go back) to Chez Chloe – and obviously I haven’t been shy with using my entire name… and it’s not Chloe… you could guess where I may have garnished the name…. Chloe was about two and a half. Yes, we still slept in the same bed. Each morning, she would ever so gently nudge my cheek with her chubby little index finger. She glowed as my eyes opened and I whispered, “Good morning sunshine.” It was another glorious day to be alive, to be loved and to be entertained or provide the entertainment. Many mornings were spent in the kitchen baking, making pancakes and singing. Chloe’s singing and dancing always required an audience. I was happy to oblige. They were sweet days I remember with utter fondness.
Fast forward eleven years. I gently tap on Chloe’s door. I wait. No sound. I peek in the room to see a balled up floral flannel comforter hiding a full size body with a flash of blonde hair streaking from the edges. If I dared to tap her gently and whisper “Good Morning Sunshine,” I’d risk a good slap upside the head. So instead I turn on the lights, shine them directly at her head and grab only a wad of foot. “Hey you, good morning,” I say as I squeeze her foot and deftly step away. I try to maintain some sort of civility, express a mother’s love and protect myself. This is repeated in ten- minute intervals until she rises from the dead.
The first words I heard this morning when she made it to the kitchen for something other than eating breakfast, were “God, those look disgusting.” and she was referring to these beauties. Of course you and I know what’s on the agenda.