I hadn't seen Reagan Story for a few months. I can't say the last time we parted was on good terms. There's some animosity. So today, as I sat on her front stoop drinking my orange Monster and being grateful for even the tiny sliver of sunshine which was visible, I was feeling trepidatious about our forthcoming encounter.
Her car pulled up. She emerged from the backseat and instantly began staring me down. I rose somewhat shakily to my feet and tried out a smile. I waved tentatively. Silence in response. She stared unblinking at me with her customary furrowed brow and remained stock still as the light breeze wafted through her auburn mohawk and clouds began to gather ominously in the distant sky.
My friend Hannah, who had been driving the car, broke the silence. She invited me into the house and as she and Reagan walked past, I noticed that Reagan and I had on the same pants. Was this some sort of power play? Last time I saw her, jeggings weren't her style. She's also got on some pretty fly jewelry. The bling, the jeggings, the mohawk- I think she's trying to gain the upper hand early on today.
In the kitchen the silence continues. Hannah has to go in to work for a couple of hours, so it's just going to be me and Reagan. Alone together. Until 2:30PM.
I quickly ascertain that Reagan and I still aren't on speaking terms when she starts to use Hannah as our conversational go between. Hannah informs me that Reagan will probably want a snack and then to go nap for quite awhile (ostensibly in an effort to avoid me), but that if she had to, she'd probably go along with me on a walk- her participation was almost guaranteed if I use the contraptions Hannah then provides me with to either strap her to my chest or restrain her into a chair on wheels.
Whatever. I don't know why she just won't tell me herself.
Hannah leaves. Reagan remains seated in her spot on the floor and without breaking eye contact, slowly brings a blue rubber lizard to her mouth and begins to chew.
Personal feelings aside, I simply cannot allow my friend to inflict physical damage to herself by ingesting the face of blue rubber lizard from Dollar Tree, so I stride smartly over and remove it from her grasp. Thwarted only momentarily, she reaches around and immediately grabs hold of a wooden hammer with which to fend me off. I manage to deflect her blows onto a pygmy xylophone which happens to be nearby. Ruffled but not beaten, I retreat into the kitchen for the previously agreed upon snack. Screams of rage accompany my exit. I quickly grab said snack (Reagan's on this new liquid diet fad right now, so it's handily encased in a bottle) and drag her kicking and screaming up the stairs to her room. After a brief struggle which for a moment even involved a balding black tomcat, we collapse into a rocking chair by the window. We both take a moment to regain our breath. I offer the snack. Thankfully, it is accepted. Reagan eats her snack in peace- only taking small breaks to pat the cat aggressively on the face using her feet. I'm hopeful that this is a good sign, and perhaps the brunt of her fury has been shifted to the cat, when suddenly she reaches up and tries her level best to peel my cheek off my face using her tiny tiny fingernails.
In a last ditch attempt to bring some peace to the room, I begin reading aloud to Reagan from "The History of the Saints." The last time I visited, my oral performance of this book brought Reagan almost instantly into a comatose state. My how the times have changed. Reagan wrenches the book from my grip, tears off the lower left hand corner with her two bottom teeth and one incisor, and hurls it to the floor. "Are You My Mother" and "Giraffe, Giraffe, Your Pants Are On Fire" (or something) suffer the same fate.
Clearly a nap is out of the question. Let's try the walk.
I rummage through several deep bureau drawers until I find a sweater which almost matches what Reagan's wearing. Upon reflection, I realize part of our quarrel may stem from the fact that the last time I was here, I was forced to assemble Reagan's outfit for the day and, due in part to my not knowing where all the clothes were and partly due to my "whimsical" fashion sense, she ended up looking like -- well, I'm struggling to come up with a comparison. Every description that comes to mind ends with "on 'shrooms." This may not be Reagan's ideal style. So I am hoping this muted, sensible green sweater will help mend fences.
I strap her on. There are plastic buckles and carabiners in places I'd rather not discuss. I try and take a selfie to show Hannah that we're sort of getting along, but Reagan refuses to give in with a smile.
We walk. Since she's still not speaking to me, I tell her all about things I see. I describe honeysuckle and how to eat it, litter, fallen brambles, gas prices, and overpass traffic (for the record, Reagan is one friend of mine with whom I feel COMPLETELY comfortable passing beneath an overpass on foot. Alone, I might be nervous, but he or she who abducts me with Reagan strapped to my body will RUE THE DAY). As we near the end of our walk, I really start to open up. I tell her about the show I'm in currently, my summer plans, and how terribly excited I am that tonight before "Little Shop of Horrors," Ashlee Heyward is going to cornrow my hair. I've been to the large yellow beauty supply store to pick up the proper rubber bands and everything. Reagan is the perfect listener and I'm starting to think we've really patched things up when we arrive home and I turn her to face me. She's asleep. I've bored her to sleep. I forget about my hurt feelings though, when I realize that the tips of my middle fingers turning purple and going numb as they did halfway through the walk was due to her casual grip in her sleep. Ripped baby fists.
Well, I've now given away that Reagan is a baby. But that will make it make more sense when I go into how difficult it is to stuff a baby into jeggings. Babies will, as we all know, occasionally need their diaper changed. Usually I can tell when this is imminent with Reagan by certain audio cues. But today, Reagan was seated in her lilac rubber throne on the kitchen island wriggling and squirming against the rubber as she reached for her grape halves and I didn't realize the noises I was hearing were diaper change warnings and not the natural squeak of her rubber chair. Eventually though, after a moment when she looked particularly lost in thought, I caught on.
Diaper changes are no big thing. I've done plenty of them over the years and they usually go off without a hitch. This was no different until it came time to replace her pants on her body. First- her pants had been kicked to the floor. I retrieve them- one hand carefully on her stomach to prevent her from flinging herself from the changing table as I know babies will do because I did it- and start to stuff one foot into one hole. That's not hard, but when I go to reach for the other foot, she somehow has it up above her ear because all babies are born fully prepared to enter Olympic level rhythmic gymnastics. By the time I've coaxed her out of her split, the pants have been hurled again to the floor. Repeat. Finally both feet are through the holes and I cram her thighs into the pants one at a time. So she's panted up to about mid-thigh. And staring up at me with a mirthless twinkle as she waits to see if I'll be able to pull this off. I can't see any way to pull her spandex baby pants up to her waist from this position. If I try it with her flat on her back, I may well jostle the only three teeth she has out of her head and Reagan's father, John, is a police officer, so I don't want to do that. Seated won't work either. So, I pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, grab the waistband of the jeggings and shake her down into them like you shake a pillow into a pillow case. Or a cantaloupe into a nostril. Success.
Having now proven myself to Reagan, we adjourn downstairs where she takes a seat in her spring chair suspended from the ceiling and happily re-enacts "The Creation of Adam" with me over and over again until Hannah gets home.
Being friends with a baby is an accomplishment. I'm proud of it.
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