Expression

I’m a mom of two girls, a fourteen-going-on-forty year old and a seven-going-on-seventeen year old. Which makes me a forty-one-going-on-Prozac year old.

I’ve gotten pretty used to my eldest daughter’s stoicism – her reticence to show outward emotion, particularly joy or pleasure is legendary in these here parts. She could be happier than a pig in poo but if any family member, particularly me, is within eye or earshot, she’d sooner lick a bug than show it. But I’ve gotten used to it. After all, I’ve a plethora of random, haphazard, spontaneous emotions myself and quite honestly, it can be exhausting trying to keep track of all of them. And being familiar with Zoe’s occasional surliness meant I was more than prepared when she hit the tween and teen years. Her emotions currently run the gamut between pissed off and really pissed off with an occasional pit stop at somewhat-content-at-the-moment-so-enjoy-it-while-you-can. Although I must admit that lately, I’ve seen her flash her beautiful smile quite often, which makes me remember fondly the sixty hours of labor it took to bring her into this world.

My youngest, on the other hand, is a completely different story. This one cannot help but show every single emotion the instant she feels it, regardless of where she is or who she’s with. She is an open book with every page ripped out, blown up, photocopied and plastered on every billboard to ensure that everyone within a fifty mile radius is aware of what she is feeling. She’s very generous in that way. And if she can’t articulate whatever feelings are brewing within at the moment, she will simply have an emotional meltdown and cry huge, heaving sobs while Nate and I play a guessing game as to the cause: Are you hurt? Are you sad? Are you sick? Are you angry? Are you happy? Are those happy tears? Are you really crying? What happened? What happened? WE CAN’T HELP YOU IF YOU DON’T TELL US WHAT HAPPENED SO TALK TO US AND HERE’S A BOWL IN CASE YOU THROW UP. And this will go on and on and on until she falls into an exhausted sleep or we fall over dead, whichever comes first.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of Helena in action. If I had the cojones, I’d grab my camera and document these blessed moments as they’re happening and save them for posterity and the Internet, but I have no cojones, much to Nate’s relief.

So I’m just going to sit my cojones-less self down and show you what I have managed to capture of Helena’s personality through the recent years:

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This is her angry face. I did not spray her with water in the exact manner required by law. Apparently, there is a right way and a wrong way to spray water upon a sweaty soccer player. Who knew?

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Being too cool for school, she hemmed and hawed before she gave me the time of day, looked up and allowed me to take this picture. Thank you, Helena. Now you can go back to your chalking and pretending I don’t exist.

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Sometimes, she’s a little saucy. And yes, I know that word is terribly old fashioned and would only come out of the mouth of a 102 year old woman, wearing woolly knickers and rocking in a chair with the thermostat turned up to sweltering, yelling CLOSE THE DAMN DOOR, IT’S DRAFTY to her husband Burt who died 20 years ago but what can I say … she brings out my geriatric tendencies. And my penchant for run on sentences.

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And sometimes she’s a little cheeky. Is that something a 102 year old woman would say? Maybe I should start worrying about myself? Note to self: start to worry. Love, me.

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Here she is, being carefree. Carefully staged carefree, as in MOM, TAKE MY PICTURE BECAUSE I LOOK CAREFREE.

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Sometimes she’s a totally normal, happy little girl.

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And sometimes she’s a totally happy little girl, but not normal. Don’t ask. I don’t.

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But of all the candid shots I’ve gotten of Helena, this is the one that speak to me the loudest. And it says OUCH. Is this the expression of my then sweet six year old, the same little girl who loves forever kisses, Bear and snuggling in the morning? Who thinks her mom is all that and a bag of chips because she makes the best mac’n cheese in the world, even if it does come in a box? Please tell me it is. Because I’m having visions of a sixteen year old who missed curfew AGAIN, who thinks she’s all that and her mom just isn’t, who might just as well slap a sign on her forehead that says STEP BACK. I can almost hear the “I already know everything I’ll ever need to know about anything and I bet you’d like to know how I know what I know but don’t hold your breath and stop about the tattoos already, it’s my body and I can do with it what I want and WHO CARES about grades because Danny doesn’t and I love him and he loves me and as soon as he makes parole, I’M OUT OF HERE and don’t even think about walking next to me ‘cuz that won’t fly and OH MY GOD, are you really going out wearing that, and hey, just so you know, no way will I ever ask you anything ever again because you don’t know anything about ANYTHING and I can’t believe I’ve got to share the same EARTH as you and why can’t you just be ANYBODY but you?”

Am I reading too much into this?