The Girl With Three Thumbs

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It is funny the memories one’s mind chooses to hold onto. A smidgen of information about childhood formed in a handful of brief flashes. I cannot recall to mind the first day I started school. Nor the last. I cannot remember the shape of the dining room table we ate at, night after night in those early years. But I can recall with a vividness beyond what should be, the formation we sat in in our kindergarten class.

Our names written on masking tape marking the spot on the ground where we were to sit. The first few days, the letters meaning nothing and then over time, they became as part of the every day as the nose on my face.

I was Jenni. This was different than the other Jennis in class. We also had a Jeni and a Jenny. My mother was always adamant that my name would end in an “i.” And so it was that it became and so it was that it is to this day.

We would sit quietly on the mat. Our legs criss-crossed, and called a politically incorrect term. One of the first things taught to all of us children was to sit upon the ground with our legs folded. A formation that continues in our current schools with a slightly different name.

I have no idea who sat to the left of me. It was not one of the Jennis. I do not know if it was a boy or a girl. I do not remember our knees touching or our shoes colliding. My focus was entirely upon the girl to my right. I do remember her name, but we will not use it here. I shall call her Charlotte. For reasons only I will know.

I am sure while we were all sitting on the ground with our knees in salute, our teacher must have been teaching us something. But the entire time I sat there, my focus was upon one thing. And it had nothing at all to do with school. My mother had always told me that it was impolite to point. I am sure she also taught me that it is impolite to stare. However, a five year old stumbling upon something from a fairy tale seated right beside her, could not help oneself.

I was mesmerized.

Charlotte had two thumbs. Oh, yes, I know. We all have two thumbs. However, Charlotte had two thumbs plus one. Upon her right hand, she had two thumbs. One was much thinner and smaller than the other. A shriveled twin to its functioning sister. I loved it. I was insanely jealous of her gift. For to me, it was a gift. An abnormality to be sure, but so different. So wonderful. I had no idea that nature could go awry. I did not know that human beings could be created differently other than in books.

Because Charlotte’s thumbs were upon her right hand, and I sat upon her left, it was at an awkward direction that I would have to turn my head to stare at her appendage. Thankfully, in addition to crossing our legs, our teacher frequently also had us cross our hands. And so I could gaze down at Charlotte’s wonder with ease whenever our teacher felt we were in need of structure.

Sometimes this would be difficult. At the time, I was Charlotte’s only friend. She was a quiet girl who whispered answers and even then it would take much prodding for her to do that. She had long coarse black hair that curled at the ends. Even though it was long enough that she could sit upon it, she never did so. She took to putting her head down at such an angle that her hair would almost completely cover her face. Hiding in its stringy shadows, she could escape from inquisitive children and ignore curious eyes.

This actually proved to be beneficial to me, because I could stare at her hands without her noticing. Although looking back, she obviously knew what I was doing. I probably provoked her into her solitary cave of hair with my rude envy, but I did not think about it at the time.

Every day I would sit next to Charlotte. Charlotte with her wonderful thumbs. I never asked her about them. To me, they were simply there. She had more than the rest of us. She had extra. And more is always better. And extra did not need to be explained.

One day I went to school and Charlotte was not there. You would think this would mean I finally paid attention to my lessons, but alas, that was not so. With Charlotte gone, her name sat all alone on the floor. The tape peeling at the corners, collecting bits of black fuzz and countless specks of dirt. I would stare at the letters of her name. She had more than I did. A different variety. The girl seemed to be blessed with an abundance that the rest of us were lacking.

Charlotte was gone for a week. I was relieved when she finally returned. I had begun to pay attention to my lessons and there was no fun in that. She sat down on the floor beside me and that is when I noticed she was different. On her right hand, she had a white bandage. It covered where her small, innocent extra thumb had laid. I stared at the gauzy covering with alarm. And for the first time all year, I felt eyes upon my own. I looked up and Charlotte was staring back at me. Her stance was defiant. Her mouth was set. And I knew in that moment that she did not like my attention upon her hand. That she never had. I felt the heat of embarrassed shame creep up my neck and I averted my eyes from Charlotte’s penetrating accusation to our teacher’s back.

This did not stop me from stealing glances each day at the hand. I was not sure what was under the bandage, but I had a heavy sick feeling in my stomach that I knew. I was terrified of the gauze being removed. I did not want to see what mysteries it held.

But as the saying goes, time does heal all wounds. And one day, Charlotte came to school without a white bandage.

I nervously looked down at her hand. Instead of the dainty, precious appendage that had once lay next to its stronger, more useful digit, there lay instead an uneven furious red jagged scar.

It was appalling.

The hows and whys were too numerous for my young soul to count.

Why would someone remove a perfectly wonderful abnormality?

What happened to it?

Where did it go?

I could not bear to look at the empty space where a miracle had once existed. After that day, Charlotte began to wear her hair clipped behind her ears. She still whispered when she spoke but did so more frequently. She became best friends with another little girl in class. A louder girl. They became inseparable and the last time I saw either one of them had been at our high school graduation. I was not invited into their fold. And if the truth were to be told, I did not want to be.

For Charlotte’s differentness had never scared me. I found it fascinating. I found her an enigma crawling with unanswered questions of the universe. But from the moment she removed her special, she alarmed me. It made me unexplainably angry. She became just like the rest of us. Which as an adult I imagine was greatly to her relief and exactly the reason she had her surgery. But to me, the odd child searching for the eclectic among the mundane. Hoping that the tedious normalcy I had begun to view in the everyday world was a deceptive barrier from the truth. I wanted the fantasy of magic. The wonder. The infinite answers. To be more. Charlotte had had more and she chose to remove it. What did that mean? Why would one choose to be normal when you could choose to be more? Charlotte once had two thumbs plus one. Eleven appendages upon her hands. Twenty one digits to count with. One more finger than all of the rest of us.

At the age of five, I grieved for her loss. And for my own. I had never had the opportunity to hold her hand in my own. To stroke the small little marvelous irregularity. To ask all of my questions and dance in the happiness of the unknown. I hastened to try to make sense of what she had done. And I couldn’t.

Charlotte had once been The Girl With Three Thumbs.

And now she was minus one. Just like the rest of us. Just like me. Just.

Hulk Hands Part II

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My son was required to do a school project last year, the week before spring break. He had to choose a product to advertise.

It was my child’s last year at this elementary school.

I had some unfinished business to take care of.

And so, you guessed it, I we chose Hulk Hands (if you have not read that story yet, you might want to. It kind of explains the strangeness that takes over here).

But not the old angry Hulk Hands. These were new and improved. They did not say, “You’re making me angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry.” Well, unless I put them on while thinking about the next assignment I got to “supervise.”

Here is the unedited commercial. This is the one I wrote. The one my son wrote was obviously more politically correct:

Do you love superheros? Do you want to be a superhero? Okay. That sounds crazy. You do know you can’t really be a superhero, right?

But what about dressing like a superhero?

You could put on a cape, but we’ve all seen how that turns out by watching “The Incredibles.”

You could put on a scary mask, but, well, that’s just scary. And, well, also a little creepy.

Don’t do that.

What if it was something easy to slip on?

What if that something could also help you do your chores?

Or make a birthday party more exciting?

Well, now you can can’t!

First of all, Hulk Hands are easy to slip on and off. And put on. And take off. And put on. And take off. And put on. And take off. And put on. And take off. And put on. And take off.

Is three minutes up yet?

No?

Okay.

And put on. And take off. And put on. And take off. And put on….

your feet.

Ha! Ha!

Just kiddin’ you. Where do you think Hulk Hands go?

On your head?

Wow! Right again!

Just kidding.

I hope you know where to put Hulk Hands. I am not going explain where to put Hulk Hands. If you do not know this, you do not need to buy Hulk Hands. You need to buy a book. And quite possibly seek out a medical professional, because your head must be an insanely odd shape. Such as that of a fist.

You will also look strong while wearing Hulk Hands. Or at least your hands will. Actually, that is not true. You will still have a tiny ten year old body and giant green bulging veiny hands. Good luck with that!

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Do you have chores? Do they involve slamming cabinets, slamming doors, slamming the garbage bin? Well, good. Because those are the only chores Hulk Hands will help you with.

You can’t do dishes in them.

You can’t make your bed while wearing them.

You can’t take out the garbage.

But if you put these on, you have a great excuse as to why you cannot do your chores to tell your parents.

“But Mom! My Hulk Hands are on. They’re stuck! (No need to tell them about how easy they are to get on and off).”

You will definitely get out of your chores.

Okay. You will definitely not get out of your chores.

But you will look funny trying to do them with your Hulk Hands on.

Hulk Hands can make a birthday party more exciting. For your next piñata smashing event, just use Hulk Hands! No need for a baseball bat or a stick, Hulk Hands will do the trick.

You should especially do this if there is a certified social worker there, you should definitely destroy the Spiderman piñata in front of him. Tear it limb to limb. This will not have him telling your mom that maybe she should expect a call from the school. You should also grin at him while carrying Spiderman’s arm while he is saying this. Trust me, he won’t be scared at all.

Just do not eat birthday cake while wearing them. Unless you like eating birthday cake like a dog. Actually this might work out in your favor. If you were a dog, you would have seven birthdays a year. And seven pinatas to destroy. This would make Hulk Hands much more useful. And this paragraph that much longer.

I love my Hulk Hands! I got mine at Target. You can get yours there, too. Even little kids like them. My three year old cousin has a set. But my mom wants a pair now, too.

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This was what his school project looked like. I know what you’re thinking. Did you really send your kid to school with his project in a garbage bag (I think you must have forgotten my son’s mission project featuring Yoda)?

The answer to that is complicated.

Yes and no.

You see, his project was in the garbage bag and his project was the garbage bag.

Make sense?

No?

Well, allow me to demonstrate:

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Yes. I really did just do that. In case my gif is not clear, I am demonstrating trying to take out the trash whilst wearing Hulk Hands. I have obviously missed my calling as both an actor, director, and, well, let’s face it, pretty bad a** super hero.

You’re welcome.

My son ended up getting a “B-” on his report. We were happy with that. He still pulled straight A’s for the year, despite his mother. Thankfully my elementary school days are behind me. Any project he does now will have to be done with little help. Hopefully he does well. However, it has to be better than a black garbage bag right? In the altered words of our inspiration in regards to school projects at home:

“They make me angry. They won’t like me when I’m angry.”

Dear Children: First Day Of School 2014

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I was informed over the summer that I do not know what junior high school boy’s fashion looks like. This might surprise you, but I am going to take that as a compliment. For many reasons.

I also learned this summer that I love sleep. Okay. This is not new. But gosh, I am going to miss late summer mornings. On the first day of school, I sobbed all of the way home after dropping you off and then crawled into bed and took a nap with your daddy. Just so you know this has continued for the last two days. It is my new favorite thing. A nap after waking. Although is that a nap? Or was my brief awake time merely a walking snooze?

Let us recount the first day of school for those of us not in our household:

I had thought the morning was going well. One child was out the door. I only had one to go. I thought it was the easy one. My daughter had needed me to flat iron her hair, help with her make-up and scrutinize her clothing skin exposure earlier in the morning. Okay, the last one was unwanted. But I cannot help it. I am a mom.

So, I thought I could cruise through the remainder of the morning with my son. All he had to do was put on a t-shirt and pants. Easy.

Except.

Well, the kid has been living in his pajamas and swim trunks for the last week. He went to put on his new first day of school shorts.

They would not button.

Not only would they not button. The button-hole and the button were so far apart it was The Grand Canyon Of Skin between them. What to do?

He unexpectedly had had a huge growth spurt and all of his pants suddenly did not fit. It was ten minutes before we had to leave.

Well, no big deal, I thought. I always purchase the next size up in pants on huge discounts when I see them. I pulled out a larger size replica of the shorts he had outgrown. They had been $6 at The Gap last year and still had the tags attached to them. They also surprisingly sported a large crusty yellow stain across the lower thigh when I went to take the tags off. This probably explains the low price and definitely explains the scream you heard from my house on Wednesday morning. There was no time to wash them. I hastily, and with great stress, found another pair in a drawer.

Note to self: next year have all of the first day of school outfits inspected and tried on before you have ten minutes to get to the school.

So, let us skip the remainder of the day (Nap. Eat. Nap. Worry) and get to the part where my children recounted their day to me over dinner:

Me to my son: “What was the best part of your day today?”

My son: “I really like my computer teacher.”

Me: “What do you like best about him?”

My son: “I love the chairs in his classroom.”

Me: “What?”

My son: “The chairs in his classroom. They swivel.”

Me: “The thing you like best about your teacher is his swivel chairs?”

My son: “Well, yea, and he has a cool classroom.”

And by cool classroom, he means a room filled with computers and swivel chairs. He lucked into his perfect elective. And hopefully not a swivel-chair-concussion.

I turned to my daughter and asked her the same question I had just asked my son, “What was the best part of your day today?”

My daughter: “Definitely the professional hugger at the pep rally.”

Me: “What the heck is a professional hugger?”

My daughter: “I don’t know but he made me cry.”

Me: “Because he hugged you?”

My daughter: “No, ugh, Mom! Because he gave the best speech.”

Me: “Did he hug anybody?”

My daughter: “No. Mom! There were hundreds of people there.”

Me: “Well, I would expect nothing less from a professional hugger. Hmmmm. I want to be hugged by a professional hugger. Maybe I am a professional hugger, only I don’t even know it because I can’t hug myself. Hug me. Let me know how I measure up.”

My daughter: “Mom! He didn’t hug me!”

Me: “Yes, I know. But as a professional hugger he must have looked very huggable so I bet you could imagine how he hugs. So just compare that to this.”

My daughter running away: “Mom!…”

That about sums it up. Swivel chairs and professional huggers. The first day of school is always full of surprises. I had started to cry that morning and my son had stopped me and said, “Mom. Don’t be that mom.”

He doesn’t know that I am always that mom.

This is a tough transitional year for me. I no longer have children in elementary school. And I never will again. No hallways decorated with sunshine faces. No noodle plates. Or Mother’s Day Teas. I have had to splinter my heart with a leftover noodle when a hole burst open from the dried-out Elmer’s glue that had been holding it together.

To my children:

Last year was an amazing school year.

You daughter, found your footing in high school and I trust in your growing maturity to continue to thrive. I am amazed at your generous spirit. Your ability to speak to anyone without fear. You surpassed me with your efficient order many years ago. Of papers. Plans. Life. You never judge and are always fair. I strive for your morals. I worry that you take on too much. An imperfectionist raising a perfectionist is my greatest challenge on my journey as your mother. You are inspiring.

You son, ended your early-childhood schooling with amazing grades and a vocabulary that I envy. You started a brand new school this year. With deodorant. Growth spurts. And a wise acceptance of change. I worry about your organizational skills that you unfortunately earned from your parents. But I have faith that you will do what you always do and breeze through your education as you gather every leaf on the tree of knowledge without ever seeming to need the wind to help you soar.

Good luck, my children. I am proud of you. Work hard. And may the Air of Wisdom be always a presence at your back and an easy whisper in your ear.

Love,

Mommy (sorry. Forgot. It is probably just Mom now)

That Mom

Dear Children: Halfway

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Today you have to go back to school after your long winter break. I just want to wring my hands and cry. I am not ready for you to go back. I have enjoyed every single moment of you being at home with me. Please don’t tell anyone this. I am afraid they will kick me out of Lazy-Mothers-R-Us. Although I was always too lazy to go to those meetings anyway (Do they even have meetings? Does the imaginary club I invented in my head carry on secret meetings? Must find this out…someday).

Halfway.

How is this school year halfway over?

The other night we spoke of homeschooling. Not seriously. I am not equipped to take on such a task. First, my knowledge is not up to par with today’s standards. Second, because I fear that we would have one hour of studying and seven hours of recess. Because that is what I am good at. This is perhaps why both of you were so gung-ho with the idea.

I asked you both what subject I would be capable of teaching and you both replied, “cooking.”

Awwww… Yes. Who needs math or english or science?

Let’s just all major in mashed potatoes.

Do they give scholarships for that?

Is it paid in potatoes or butter?

Halfway.

We are halfway through. But it means so much more than that. It means that in six months I will officially have no children in elementary school. Both of your schools will have the word “high” in them. I cannot see why, as it makes me feel so low.

And old.

Halfway.

It means that in six months, you, my daughter, will only have three years left at home with us. Three years! How am I ever going to manage this? It makes me want to hide in bed and never leave. And on some days I do just that. The idea of you leaving me is as foreign as the languages I will never homeschool you in.

Last night we gathered together backpacks and binders. Old lunches were found buried in the bottom of bags. A pleasant reminder as to why I joined Lazy-Mothers-R-Us in the first place. Inventory was taken and it seems that of the 2,587,463 pencils I purchased you at the beginning of the year, we have two left. Two! It also seems that both of your folders have been gnawed on and chewed then spit back out and mauled again. How else to explain the full lunches in both of your bags and the decrepit state of your folders? Maybe I’m not qualified to teach you cooking after all.

Halfway.

That is the status of my heart right now. Frozen between breaking in your absence and rejoicing in your return. It is in a stasis period. It seems to be the only thing not moving. For Time certainly has not stopped.

June. I try not to curse on this blog, but there never was such a bad four letter word as that one. The end of the school year. I always think of it as the end of yet another year that you will be with us. But maybe I am viewing this all wrong. It is, basically, the very beginning of a whole summer spent at home with me.

Maybe June isn’t such a bad word. In fact, maybe halfway isn’t either. Maybe this school year is halfway full instead of halfway empty. Oh, never mind, that analogy is useless with anything other than a glass.

Halfway.

Well, we are here whichever it may be. And, I, for one, am not even halfway ready for it.

Is it too late to stay home and make mashed potatoes?

I heard they taste better than binders.

And tears.