Immediately I'd agreed to assist the amateur thespians of Perros, I indulged in a delightful orgy of self-doubt and general panic, in spite of Reza and Christine both proclaiming it an excellent idea. They seemed to share the opinion that I was languishing in Perros, with nothing but Masson's music lessons and the daily tour of the city with the children to occupy my mind.
And so I embarked. In my first official meeting with Madame Leclerq, President, and Madame Lallande, Treasurer, I learned that they'd chosen for their next production nothing less than Romeo and Juliet, heaven help me. We agreed that I would meet the players at their regular meeting Tuesday next to decide casting and the rest.
Of course, that was not to be. I was awakened with a pillow thwack in the early hours of that very Tuesday morning; my darling bride sent me off in search of a midwife. Fortunately, Perros was not experiencing the rush on midwives that Paris had been when Miri-ange was born, so one was duly summoned and I was excused from acting as understudy once again. I was grateful to be able to assume the more traditional role of fretful father; my third child and I'd not yet been permitted the luxury of feeing faint, nauseous and extraneous. Naturally I took to it with relish, with the added bonus of feeling doubly hard done by when neither Reza, Silke nor anyone else in the household sympathized with my extremity. They were all more concerned about Christine, which seemed—and still does—utterly backwards to me. In the first place, being transported with worry over Christine was my job, and I felt that no one could add anything significant to that. She was, after all, my angel; no one could worry more effectively on her behalf. Secondly, she was—well, this probably sounds terribly callous, but she was occupied, you see, what with breathing and squeezing and not squeezing and the odd bit of discomfort here and there. Whereas I had nothing to occupy my mind but worry for her and the baby who was to become Carmen, and so it seems to me still that the poor father is the one who rightly deserves all the sympathy and cool cloths for his feverish brow. I've never been able to persuade anyone to my way of thinking on it; not even Raoul. He feels the whole point of the exercise is to get as drunk as possible, but not falling over drunk, so you can careen in at the proper moment and praise mother and baby lavishly before you pass out. I told him he was a nincompoop; if a man is too drunk, he can't worry properly.
At any rate, Carmen was duly born, and Christine came through it easily. Carmen was a serious, red little thing from the start. She looked the world squarely in the eye, with a miniature version of Christine's dimple over her brow, as if she wished everyone would stop cooing at her and come straight to the point.
Masson was relatively disinterested; he'd been through this girl baby thing before and didn't really see what Carmen would add to the odd menagerie which comprised our family. We had some trouble with Miri-ange, though not the sort you might imagine.
Naturally Miri-ange had overheard us discussing the new baby with Masson, and when Mama began to get big, we pointed out to Miri-ange that the new baby was in Mama's tummy. Miri-ange took to patting Christine's belly very gently and murmuring 'Miri beebee.' Anxious as we were to avoid any jealousy toward the new little one (such as we'd experienced with Masson when Miri-ange made her entrance), we encouraged the little diva in the idea that the baby was indeed as much hers as anyone else's.
It seemed reasonable at the time. Little did we realize that when Miri-ange decided it was her baby, she meant it was HER BABY, and no one else's, thank you very much.
And so when I brought my little diva to meet her new baby sister, she promptly reached out her dimpled hands, latched onto the tiny pink bundle and gave it a snatch that nearly sent the infant sailing across the bedroom. Christine shrieked, mortified; I scrambled and collected the baby diva as Christine re-wrapped Carmen and clutched her tightly to her breast. I caught Miri-ange's hands and tried to explain that we needed to be gentle with Carmen, as we were with the Smudge and all babies. My little diva frowned at me as if to say 'What the devil are you thinking, Erik?' When I attempted to move away from the bed, her little arms and legs began to flail. I recognized this as the windup to a baby diva conniption, so I assured her that we could stay by Mama and the baby, so long as we were circumspect with our hands.
I settled Miri-ange on the bed next to Christine, and again she reached out for the baby.
"Miri beebee," she insisted, tugging on the blanket. She frowned at Christine and looked up at me. Talk to your wife, Papa; perhaps you can make her understand.
"I think Miri would like to hold Carmen on her lap, like a proper big sister, Mama."
Christine's eyes darted nervously. "I don't know, Erik…"
"Miri beebee."
"We'll be right here, Darling, in case Miri needs any help," I offered meaningfully.
A few more seconds saw Christine relent. We placed the baby gingerly in Miri-ange's tiny lap. Christine continued to support the baby's head, to Miri's consternation. She kept trying to shove Christine's hand away. It took some time for us to persuade her that we were merely helping, but that Miri-ange was most definitely the one holding her baby.
Well, that was alright then. Miri settled and began smoothing Carmen's blanket and gown, chatting in the same unintelligible way she did with Smudge. And as with Smudge, the baby diva's powers of concentration were formidable. She sat there and kept up her monologue until her naptime was well overdue. Exhaustion overtook her and she fell asleep sitting up just as she was.
Naturally this afforded Christine the opportunity to panic in a less restrained way. "Erik, she could have killed her!"
"Yes, Darling, it was unfortunate, but it's past, and you see no harm done."
"Unfortunate? It was terrifying! She's not going to let me care for her, I can see it! I'm going to have to fight her for my baby!" Christine's eyes were getting wild; she was headed for post-partum hysterics.
"Darling, let me get you a glass of wine—"
She whacked me. "Don't you patronize me!" Her eyes narrowed to slits the way they always do when she's settled on a culprit. "This is all your fault," she hissed. "I knew no good would come of that goat!"
"For god's sake, Christine, you're exhausted, and I'm very nearly so. Could we please leave this battle til you've recovered your strength and can berate me properly?"
She dissolved in tears then. Much better. I gathered her up as best I could with the two sleeping princesses between us. "Oh, god, Erik. I can't take it, she's such a little diva!"
I bit my tongue; a wise choice, I think. "There, Angel. We'll manage it, you'll see. I rather prefer this to jealousy, don't you?" I rocked her and stroked her back.
"I don't know," she whimpered. "All I know is I'm not having any more babies!"
Ah.
-0-0-0-0-
In the end, I was right: we did manage it after all. But Carmen's debut represented a huge period of adjustment for us. It took about three months before it was sorted out to everyone's satisfaction.
Miri-ange shadowed Christine and Carmen everywhere, every waking moment. Just as Christine had done with me and Miri-ange, Miri managed to convey that she considered Christine utterly incompetent to care for the new baby, never mind she'd given birth to her. We managed—and it was no small feat—to persuade Miri that Mama absolutely had to be permitted to nurse little Carmen, but immediately the baby had had her fill, she had to be turned over to Miri for the burping. If the baby squawked, Miri panicked and tried to snatch her from Christine. If Christine didn't hand the baby over immediately, catastrophe ensued.
Somehow, Miri-ange had become convinced that I was her advocate with Christine in this regard, so she came sobbing to me, tugging my hand and pleading, whereupon I had to leave off whatever I happened to be doing with Masson and go mediate the struggle between the two divas. It is not the sort of position a man wants to find himself in, caught between his wife and his daughter, but Miri-ange was emphatically Papa's Little Diva. Oh, she loved Mama well enough, but as soon as she was old enough to express a preference, it was me she wanted doing for her. And funnily, now that her baby was here, Miri-ange seemed to prefer me doing for Carmen as well, if Miri couldn't do it herself. Somehow, I managed to explain to Miri that bigger hands were best left to changing nappies and bathing the baby, and if I did it, well, that was alright—so long as Miri was nearby to supervise.
The upshot was that Christine was frazzled and I was utterly exhausted. Miri-ange was content, however.
Reza had no sympathy for my latest familial drama, crotchety old bachelor that he was. He chuckled and told me I should have continued to worship Christine from afar. He stopped laughing, though, when he finally saw for himself how Miri was worrying Christine.
"I fear that little lady will put a grey hair on your head in the years to come, Erik," he remarked solemnly.
I nodded. "Indeed. Daroga, how do you suppose such a tiny child comes to be so—"
"She is her mother's daughter, old friend."
It sounds foolish, but it really had not occurred to me before what it portended, having two headstrong women in my life. And if her facial expressions were any indication, Carmen was another one, god help me. I believe I blanched and wobbled.
Reza caught my arm and guided me to the sofa. "Let me get you a cognac."
"Christine is right," I sighed.
"Oh?"
"No more babies."
"We'll just see how long this lasts," Reza muttered.