Robert A. Mills, click
here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.
Blogs by Robert A. Mills
FIRST BIRTHDAY, PART THREE 2/24/2011 6:59:37 AM
MY FIRST BIRTHDAY by Alexandra E. Faucette (née Mills) as told to her father Robert A. Mills
PART THREE (of 3)
(As a refresher, PARTS ONE & TWO may be accessed from the archives at the bottom of this page)
The night of the party I was put to bed, as usual, at 7:52, just before Final Jeopardy, something on TV that always made Daddy say “I bet it all!” as he carried me from the room. He held my bottle at arm’s length and played a silly game he’d made up called “Follow the Bottle, Up the Stairs We Go!”
In my room, we performed a nightly routine where we greeted all the stuffed animals (he even pretended to let Momma Bear and Baby Bear drink from my bottle, complete with sound effects: slurp, slurp, suck, suck, slurp!), and he had me nuzzle them all, and finally, while my mobile, the Dancing Gubaligotts, bounced over my head, he kissed me and lay me in my crib, tucked me in, place the bottle in my mouth, and promptly vanished out the door as though I might protest going to bed and he’d have to stay with me and miss Final Jeopardy.
The moment he was gone I threw the bottle to the foot of the crib and grabbed Henry’s foot. “Are we all set for party?” I asked him.
“Sure thing! Everybody’s comin’ up here at 2 a.m.”
I was excited -— and I had a new thought. “What if my parents wake up?”
“No chance,” Henry assured me. “Pagliacchio put some spider dust in your momma’s teapot, so when she has her 8:45 cup, it’ll be buenos notches, hasty la vista, and aloha ‘til dawn’s early light!”
“What about my daddy?”
“Well, if he has tea with her, no problemo. Jus’ to make sure, though, Pagliacchio put a pinch in his vodka bottle as well.”
"What if he has both?” I asked, knowing it was often the case.
Pagliacchio chortled through his trunk. “Then he’ll get the best night’s sleep since he was single!”
“Or,” Henry giggled, “he’ll sit in the den bug-eyed an’ make up some more nutsy songs to sing you.”
I pouted. “I don’t think his songs are so nutsy.”
“Oh, no? You think he’s gonna win the Stephen Sondheim Award with I’d rather have ‘Hickory an’ Dickory an’ Doc, Than all the borscht in Vladivostok, ‘Cause borscht is worst when served by the cup, It makes li’l girls wanna throw up!’ Whew! You think that racket they hear underfoot on 42nd Street is the rumble of the subway train? Not so, kiddo — that’s Cole Porter turnin’ over in his grave every time your ol’ man lays that one on you! Come on, he’s nuttier than a Snicker’s!”
“Oh, Henry!”
“That one, too. It’s your choice.”
The party was in full swing by 2:25. Everyone was there. I stood in my crib, holding on to the rails, and watched Mopsy dance with Louie the Lobster (for music we had three musical toys playing Brahms’ “Lullaby,” “Send in the Clowns,” and “Hi Lilly Hi Lo” simultaneously).
A.G. danced with Pagliacchio, Pekoe whirled around the nursery with the Pink Pansy, and Henry even climbed into the crib and tried to dance with me — I refused to let go of the railing.
Paddy Brewster grabbed Eleanor Roosevelt, attempting to trip the light fantastic, but she said it was not proper for the chaperons to cavort on the dance floor.
Tweety Bird and Ernest Angel flew the cake upstairs, and I had to admit Mopsy and Eleanor had done themselves proud. “It’s great!” I cried. “What kind is it?”
“Chocolate banana spaghetti and orange pea soup,” beamed Eleanor Roosevelt.
It was a marvelous party, the very best birthday party I’d ever had, and I was certain the one my parents were planning for that night would also be very nice. But not this nice.
Even Chloe showed up in good spirits. In spite of Paddy’s admonitions, Ernest and Tweet Bird picked her up by the tail and the nape of her neck and flew her into my crib. She yapped and growled something (A.G. told me it was “Happy Birthday, you little runt!”) and I let her lick some cake off my face.
And then—it happened!
The light snapped on, and there in the doorway —- oh, no! -— there stood my momma!
“Chloe!” she shrieked. “Bad girl! In the baby’s bed! Never! Bad! Bad! Bad dog!”
Naturally, the music stopped the instant the light came on, and all the animals and dolls literally collapsed on the spot, totally lifeless. And I did, too, closing my eyes tight and pretending I was asleep. Chloe, of course, was frightened out of her wits, and with one grunting leap, sprang from the crib, over the railing, right into Momma’s arms.
Daddy appeared behind Momma, mumbling, “What the hell’s going on?”
“Your dog was in the baby’s crib!” Momma cried.
“My dog? . . . .That’s impossible. She can barely climb up on our bed.”
Momma hesitated, yawning, no longer entirely certain. “Well, it looked like she was in the crib. Maybe she was just in the rocking chair. I’m -— very sleepy.”
“I’m going back to bed,” Daddy said, rubbing his eyes “The tea and that vodka tonic didn’t mix.” Momma told him to cover me up as she put Chloe on the floor and left the room.
Daddy came over and tucked the quilt around my shoulders. I opened my eyes when he placed the bottle in my mouth; he brushed my hair back with the palm of his hand.
“You know something, kiddo,” he said, drowsily, “You’re a whole year old today. A whole year. One year old!” He yawned loudly, scratching his stomach. “Nuthin’ this time, but next year it’ll mean something to you. Nite-nite, sweetheart.”
The next day my momma, who never remembers dreams, told Daddy she’s had a dream last night that Chloe really did love me and was sleeping in my crib to protect me.
“That’ll be the day,” Daddy said. “By the way, I had a crazy dream myself last night.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know exactly, but it was about the baby’s birthday party. You made a weird cake for her out of chocolate, bananas, spaghetti, oranges, and pea soup.”
Momma laughed at that. “How was it?”
“Not so bad,” my daddy said, looking at me. “And what’s so funny about THAT, young lady?” He made a comical face, puffing his cheeks out and bulging his eyes.
