She’s a gift

I had dinner with my no-longer-a-teenager last night for our joint birthdays.

She fancied Japanese and our options were a little limited on a Monday night. We ended up at a hole-in-the-wall place called Tobikiri. It was very delicious. We ordered karage chicken, beef tataki, seared salmon sushi and marinated kingfish.

The very limited wine list included my favourite white – Peterson’s Chardonnay – by the glass. It was a sign!

I was reminded as we sat across the table from each other that the youngest is my physical opposite and such an Amazonian grown-up these days. She’s tall, blonde, golden-skinned, midway through her university degree, living away from home since she was 17, cycling hundreds of kilometres each week and working every weekend at a climbing gym.

I miss her very much.

And her childhood flew past way too fast.

Many of my funniest memories of her are when she was a toddler in New York.

Although, there was nothing funny about getting her there. My ex had flown over early to start a scholarship at Columbia University and I followed a month later with two small children and 10 pieces of luggage.

Tackling the flight on my own was pretty traumatic and the first thing my ex saw as we exited customs was the youngest screaming hysterically as she ran through the terminal. She was outraged that I didn’t have enough hands to pick her up AND push the trolley.

I may have sobbed quietly in the cab on the way to our new home.

The youngest also had very strong opinions from word go.

A few months after we arrived in New York, I was preparing to go out in a pair of moccasins. She sat on them and said I wasn’t allowed to leave the house in such appalling footwear. She was two!

She also had the most adorable mispronunciations. Blueberries were bloobellies. The Statue of Liberty was the Tattoo of Wiberly. And “where are you?” was “air ah oooh?” (which became a favourite family saying for many years).

She memorably screamed the place down one afternoon when we took her to a restaurant near Times Square called Mars 2112. Diners entered via a simulated rocket ship ride, arriving at a Martian-themed restaurant space. Waiters dressed up as aliens served the customers and it scared the living shite out of the youngest, who yelled “No like da aliens! No like da aliens!” at the top of her voice until they all scuttled away, never to return to our table.

She was also very not keen on meeting Santa Claus when we took her to Macy’s for a photo opportunity. As I’ve noted previous blog posts, the story went something like this:

Christmas can be confusing when you’re only two years old. Your parents take you to meet this scary guy in a red suit called Santa. You have to queue for ages, while people assure you there’s nothing to be afraid of (a sure sign there will be something to be afraid of) and tell you to ask him for a present.

Your older sibling has lots of requests, like Barbies and toy boats and stuff, so you decide to ask for another dolly, because you really like dollies.

Finally, you are taken into a small room with the scary Santa man, who wants you to sit on his knee.

There is no way you are going to sit on his knee. He is strange, and big and has all this white stuff on his chin.

Your parents try to make you sit beside him instead, so a lady can take a photo.

Mummy and Daddy try to stand on the other side of the room while the photo is taken. There is no way that will be happening. You get a little hysterical at the mere suggestion.

So Mummy and Daddy sit in the photo with you and the scary Santa man.

Eventually, after much coaxing, you tell Santa that you want a dolly.

A camera flashes a few times, you grudgingly agree to give the scary Santa man a high-five, and suddenly you are whisked outside into a dark corridor, where Mummy and Daddy negotiate to buy some very expensive photos of you looking petrified.

There’s just one problem – you don’t have a dolly.

You were told to ask the scary Santa man for a present. You agreed to sit beside him. You asked him for the dolly. Where is the damn dolly?

You ask your parents: “Why me got no dolly?”

They look momentarily startled, then start laughing.

This is no laughing matter. 

You eventually settled for a snowman ornament. But you’d still like a dolly. Apparently you have to wait until something called “Christmas” comes, which sounds like an awfully long time away.

The concept of the youngest turning 20 also seemed an awfully long time away when she was just an ickle wickle thing demanding a dolly.

But here we are. And the toys are much more expensive these days. Cycling and climbing equipment don’t come cheap. Neither do new car tyres or petrol.

But I am hopelessly devoted to her and dazzled by her determination.

Song of the day: Louis Armstrong “Hello Dolly”