Playing mom

The weird thing, among several, about having new siblings who range between the ages of 10 and 13 when you're in your late twenties is that you often feel very "mom-like". Case-in-point, today. Today, August 2, marked my parents' 30th wedding anniversary. A year ago I started thinking out some fantastic things for us to do to celebrate. A year later, I did none of those. But plans and circumstances are quite different than I anticipated a year ago, so that stands to reason, I suppose.

For one my mom and dad and Cely have come to OH rather than the other way around this summer. It's really great to have them here; it makes me wonder how I will deal with it when they leave. I hate the emptiness that occurs when guests leave. But we still have a few days together. I'm rambling and not meaning to. What I'm actually trying to get at is that today was my parents' big day, and rather than getting to spend the whole day with them and celebrating, Cely and I spent the day with each other. Mom and Dad took a little trip for themselves. It was the first time I've ever spent so much time with just Cely. She can be so quiet and share so little that it's hard to hold a conversation with her, yet she can also be so sweet and lovable. We played games like Battleship and Connect Four together. I took her to see Toy Story 3, which was in 3-D. I didn't know I'd have to pay for 3-D, but her pleasure in watching the movie that way did make it more bearable to shell out the extra dollars.

We also went swimming at the condo's community pool. Of course the regular tanning women were there. Some of them remind me of toasted pita chips they are so thoroughly baked. Personally, I don't find that much tan attractive, but then it's not my call. Anyway, there's this one well-baked woman with nice abs who seems to have three or four daughters who frequent the pool side with her. After I left Cely to play in the pool a little more by herself, the youngest of the those other girls, I think her name is Ella, invited Cely to play tag in the pool. Hearing that strident, pushy voice boss my little sister around made me feel both protective and concerned. Cely, I think, was glad to have someone to play with, but this little girl obviously liked to do things her way and her way only. Cely just kind of went along with it, and I attempted to intervene a little--in as pleasant a way as I know how.

Eventually, another sister joined the game and seemed to balance things out a little. I think Cely liked playing with that other girl better. And finally I called Cely from the pool so that we could get ready to go see our movie.

I guess what struck me was wondering how on earth anyone ever survives parenting. Cely isn't my daughter, adopted or by birth, but my age and hers makes me feel very parental towards her. Watching that little girl boss Cely around made me so angry and then disgusted. I can't help but wonder how any parent can get through the worry about how other kids will treat yours. I love Cely, but I can't make others love her. I can't protect her from the hideous pains that the world can strike her with. And so I only marvel that so many people seem able to function with the fear that must be inside at times.

And your heritage is . . .?

Since childhood, my sister KC has been asked what her nationality/heritage/ethnicity, etc. might be. With her naturally tan skin, straight, almost black hair, and startingly minty green eyes, she doesn't look like your everyday girl-next-door. There is something rather exotic about her. Thus as a child, she could tell people she was part Native American. As a teen with her long cornrows, she could pass as half African American. Indeed some people went so far to tell her when she waitressed for them that "If you were white, I'd give you a better tip." (I'm not going to go on my rampage against the prejudices of the ignorant just yet--maybe another post). When she worked at the Barnes and Noble cafe and the Pak-a-Sak in Amarillo, people questioned if she were Brazilian. I believe even in L. A., land of the melting pot, people ponder if she might be Persian. Sometimes, out of sheer irritation or a sense of fun, she plays along with it and makes up a fantastical story as to her ancestry. Honestly, people will believe just about anything if you look "different."

Now I, on the other hand, have never had such questions. I'm the "whitey" in my family, the one whose skinned would burn, peel, and/or freckle growing up. It still does that to some extent, but honestly, since I've moved to OH, I've been able to get the best tans of my life. (Isn't that insane? I grew up in TEXAS!) Ok, yes, I've been envious of my sister. Interestingly enough, our eyes are just about the same color, but hers just look so much more striking because she has that fantastic tanned skin to set off the lightness. Mine just blends right in with my whiteness.

However, since I've moved to OH, people seem to find it easier to believe I might have more exotic origins than the Irish/German combo that created my genetic makeup. Not that there's anything wrong with those . . .I'm pretty proud of my heritage, especially the Irish part. But in the past year I've had more than one person ask me if I were Italian, in the past couple of months I had someone tell me I look "European" (whatever that means), and in the past twenty-four hours, I had one guy tell me I looked like I could have come from southern Europe or maybe Spain, and another guy question if I were Greek. Greek! I suddenly feel a bit more exotic than I ever have. And, yeah, I feel kinda good about that. Like I'm . . .cooler somehow.