Sometimes I wonder where the hell Mumu came from (other than my womb). Aside from her love of eating, I wouldn’t say we have anything in common. Mumu is a true English Lady. Her posture is perfection. She doesn’t walk so much as prance, chin up, shoulders back. She’s statuesque. She begs to wear her best dresses every day. She doesn’t own any jewelry, so she pulls blue rubber bands off asparagus bunches and wears them as bracelets. I don’t wear bracelets (not around toddlers anyway), so I don’t know how she knows about them. She can eat anything–anything–without spilling a crumb. She picks out and puts on shoes to compliment each ensemble. Her most recently exhibited Lady behavior is holding out her hand to be kissed. I kid you not. I’ve started to think she’s some kind of time-traveling Duchess, as I can’t figure out where on earth she learned about hand kissing. I haven’t held any galas lately, or ever, and no one’s kissed my hand lately, or ever…well, there was that one time…but that was the 90s. Anyway, who knows where the hell she got it, but that’s not even all. We go to the park everyday, and rather than dive into the hedges or play toss the caber with enormous bamboo trunks (like her sister does), Mumu strolls, promenades–if you will–and never alone. She holds my hand, very proper, and leads me on a stroll about the grounds. The freshly mowed, civilized parts– never the jungle bits. The jungle is no place for a lady.
Lulu is all about the jungle, because Lulu is a scamp. A full-out scamp. I mean, like in olden days, depression era, black and white photographs of dirty faced kids, smirking mischievously, wearing adorably ragged old Irish man hats, using sticks to roll broken wheels down city streets. Like that. Except in a jungle. She is an excellent pickpocket. I’m crossing my fingers she doesn’t end up in juvie. She’s little, incredibly fast, fearless. She has no regard for her young person. She’s a regular Jane Goodall in the park. She digs up mongoose bones, climbs through sharp lava rocks, thorny bushes, whacks through jungle foliage to get the best specimens. She’s never without something in each hand. She carries two specimens at all times, constantly compares them, and trades up if a better example comes within reach. Should the better example be out of reach, she will kill herself to get to it. In the week before a Pediatrician checkup, I make Lulu wear pants 24-7, even on the hottest days, so she’ll have slightly less cuts and bruises when we see the Doctor. Lulu is much more like me, actually, because she’s a total mess most of the time. Jungledad thinks she’s my incubus. She kind of is. If you see us together, you’ll know we belong to each other– smudges on our faces, hair sticking up, fresh stains on whatever t-shirt was thrown on, muddy flip-flops, clumsy bruises, and naughty I’m-up-to-something smirks. Unlike Lulu, however, I truly aspire to be more like Mumu, but for the time being, Mumu must be so disappointed in us. She’ll probably ditch us by the age of 3.
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, but in your house, is one child another child’s keeper?
