I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

Remember when Syd asked if my sled-run down the icy hill was worth it, considering its effect on my tailbone? I’m sure you’re dying to know my final answer. I really want to say “yes” because it was mostly fun. However, at the moment, whenever the lower 3/4 of me moves—to sit down, get up, climb stairs, lift things or roll over in bed—the action elicits an involuntary yelp. Google informs me that it may take a couple weeks to recover from a good butt-bone-thwacking.

Poor Ember had a major tooth cleaning appointment yesterday afternoon, long overdue on account of the questionable safety of having the work done in Covid-careless Chico. Because she was anxious, because there was so much work to be done, and because I wasn’t allowed to stay with her, I practically begged them to give her nitrous oxide to ease her worry and discomfort. After telling me it wasn’t possible, the kind and expert staff eventually complied, and even came out to the waiting room twice to report that she was doing well. The little peanut emerged an hour later, still a bit logy, and we braved the Bay Area’s famous rush-hour traffic home. Glad that’s behind us.

Croaking at Singing to her at bedtime seems to help her unwind, so I’ve continued my serenading. Her hands-down favorite is still Dona Dona. While she’s not much of a fan of singing herself, she surprised me a couple nights ago by joining in with my warbling. At her insistence, we ran through all the verses three times over.

I’ve noticed a rather unfortunate pattern in the songs I choose. In Dona Dona, of course, “calves are easily bound and slaughtered, never knowing the reason why.” The fox who goes out on a chilly night chews on the bones-o of the animals he kills in their sleep. Also:

• Banks of the Ohio: A jilted lover stabs his girlfriend and throws her into the river to drown (though to his credit, he does feel a little bad about it afterwards).
• Streets of Laredo: A cowboy is dying of a bloody gunshot wound to his chest, which he realizes is his own fault because he’s done wrong.
• Goodnight Irene: Another fella has the great notion to jump into the river and drown if his lady-friend turns her back on him. And also, he might take morphine and die.
• Go Tell Aunt Rhody: A prized goose is discovered dead in the mill pond, which brings great grief to her abandoned children and everyone else who knew and loved her.

I have another favorite lullaby I’ve yet to perform for Ember. It’s a comforting little Appalachian number called Rockie-bye, Baby. It starts off just fine:

Rockie-bye, baby.
Go to sleepie, little baby.
When you wake I’m gonna cook you a cake,
And a whole stew with pertaters.

But all is not well in the mountains.

Black sheep, black sheep, where’s your mama?
‘Way down yonder in the valley.
Birds and flies a-peckin’ at her eyes,
And her poor little baby cries ‘Mama!’

I’m gonna give that one a miss. Otherwise it might engender the kind of bad dreams I’m prone to; the latest: I was taking care of Ember and one of her new friends from school. I took them to a house I’d just bought in the marshes of southern Delaware. As we walked through, I realized it was an uninhabitable, unsalvageable disaster, with warped hardwood floors as steeply wavy as a roller coaster track, and rotted, boggy areas in the corners of every room. I’d invested all my money in it, and knew I’d never recover a penny. Upset, I walked back outside with the kids, at which point I must have done something to freak out Ember’s friend. She took off running down the street and climbed aboard a crowded tour bus waiting at the curb. Before I could reach her, it drove out of sight. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out how to dial the police or find a way to go after her or notify her next-of-kin. But somehow, hours later the wayward child reappeared with her parents by her side. They glared at me as the kid informed me, “I’m telling everyone what a terrible grandmother Ember has, and now no one will be nice to her at school any more.” I’d failed her.

And in fact, I may very well have done. Last night was a first: I made her mad. I’d promised her dessert after dinner as usual, provided she finished her meal. She didn’t, so I denied her. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so strict. And I definitely picked a bad day to enforce my regulation, considering what she’d been through earlier. The result: she wouldn’t talk to me until sometime after she woke up this morning. Well, I expected bumpy moments. We’re okay again, for she was in fine fettle when I took her to school just now, and I’m looking forward to seeing her again at 3:05.

And look what she did: Eleni sent her a 500-piece puzzle and she whizzed through it in a matter of days. Clever person.

On Molly’s and Ember’s suggestion, I’m looking into the possibility of fostering a cat for a little while, on the theory that a pet can be soothing, when it’s not destroying things. It could be a comfort for Ember. We’ll see what develops.