Marina and I thought we knew what chaos was.
After all, Dominic and Matthew are well versed in the art of anarchy. Every day with them brims with mayhem, leaving us without any doubt in our mind what it feels like to live in a tornado’s path.
When Marissa was born, I was under the misconception that she would be the antithesis to Dominic and Matthew’s energy. Prior to her birth, our friends told us that their daughters are quiet, could amuse themselves for hours and generally, be the pinnacle of congeniality. This was certainly true when Marissa was baby, her immobility meant that she could not create havoc and cause trouble.
This stage, as it turned out was the proverbial calm before the storm (or as the case 
actually was, because we had to contend with Dominic and Matthew’s uncontainable dynamism – the tornado before the tidal wave) Once Marissa gained her balance and started walking, no amount of battening down the hatches could have prepared us for our tempest called ‘Marissa’.
With her on the move, I gained a new level of understanding as to why tropical storms are named after females, because wherever Marissa went, a trail of destruction followed. Thereafter, I realised that during Marissa’s first months, she was not staring at the world with wonder, but plotting the destruction of our abode.
Take the time she nearly burnt our house down, for example.
It was Sunday afternoon. The boys were quietly, yet intently, playing with their Lego. Marina and I were relishing an afternoon cuppa and completing sentences without interruption. It was a moment for the ages. Marissa did not feel the same way, and without much fanfare, toddled off.
She returned ten minutes later, sat down amongst the blocks and innocently started constructing what appeared to be a Surface-To-Air-Missile.
It wasn’t until I told Marina that I could not recall the that last time we were privy to such a peaceful Sunday afternoon, that I noticed a charred scent wafting from the kitchen.
“Are you baking something?” I asked Marina.
Her eyebrows arched quizzically and shook her head: “No.”
Following our noses, we entered the kitchen, discovered the oven was switched on and the temperature knob twisted to 350 degrees.
We knew then we had choice: Bring out the child locks or build Marissa her very own medieval tower in the backyard, to ensure she would not get up to mischief and destroy our house in the process. Unfortunately council vetoed the latter proposal and presently, our home, especially our kitchen, is in lockdown.
On those rare occasions that the kitchen cupboard locks are not secured, Marissa, with Flash-like speed, commando rolls through our legs, wrenches the door open, grabs any bowl/container/fine china/object of importance and spectacularly hurls them across the house. Needless to say, our set of eight melamine bowls have been reduced to the three, a Pyrex bowl has been KIA and our fridge is showcasing of the scars of rebounds and ricochets.
Her sticky fingers are not limited to what she can find in the kitchen, but to drawers, shelves, book cases, CD/DVD storage cabinets, garden beds (if only she could discriminate between weeds and flowers), toys and any other objects that are not secured behind multifaceted security systems or mechanically attached to the planet.
Her curiosity, while simultaneously irritating and endearing, can also prove dangerous, as her brothers will attest. Marissa has been known to use any object she has commandeered as a weapon. She does not do this out of anger, but merely to see what would happen if…
Remember those melamine bowls? Marissa, with the stealth and prowess of Batman, managed to circumvent our defences, snatch one from the cupboard, sneak up to Dominic and Matthew who were engrossed in a dinosaur themed book at the time and with the grace of championship wrestler, smash the bowl on their heads. The end result was that the boys were left in tears, a bowl that was the sum of its parts and little girl amused at the bedlam she created.
This affinity for chaos and an unquenchable desire to simulate UFC matches in our lounge room, signalled to Marina and me that our little princess was anything but. Her antics are also the reason I tell people that “We have two princesses and a girl” when they enquire as to how many kids we have.
A girl who, since her arrival, has made all my points in my blog “commander-n-chief” moot. She has, with deft Machiavellian tactics, not to mention a numerous cuddles and smiles, turned the family hierarchy on its head, by commandeering the role of family CEO, and in turn, relegated Dominic and Matthew to middle management – i.e. they make a lot of noise but don’t do any work. Marina avoided the restructure and is still Senior Chaos Coordinator, while I failed my performance review and was promptly demoted to posterior shining technician.
Her takeover may have been silent, but in her new position, reticence is not an option, and as such, her cooing reached a new level of determination and purpose.
Then of course, she began to speak…
One of Marissa’s first words was ‘Mama’, because ‘Mama’ never hesitated to tell her about all the upcoming shopping trips to avail each other of Gucci Shoes, diamond bracelets, Dior Handbags and Armani Dresses. “Dada” was not very supportive of these stories and would end each of Mama’s tales with a firm “I don’t think so.’’
Marissa quickly picked up on my sentiment and compounded my sentence into what is now one of her favourite words – “No!”
She never fails to use this word at key times. For instance, when she is served one scoop of ice cream in her bowl (instead of two), she is given two cubes of chocolate (instead of eight), the kitchen cupboards are locked, we want to put her to bed, her grandparents turn into our street and when I want to change the TV channel.
I put her expert use of the word ‘No!’ down to her genome and the ‘X’ Chromosome contained within, which by its very shape is often used to denote an answer or action in the negative. This ‘X’ sign can be as simple as placing your forearms across each other to demonstrate non-verbally to another person to stop. It is also often used, in conjunction with paddles, to stop a plane at the correct location when it is taxing to the aerobridge and even as part of signage at a railway crossing to ensure vehicles halt when necessary. In a nutshell, it is another way of saying “No!” The point of all this, is that the use of this common English determiner is actually ingrained not only in her genome, but in those of the feminine species, thereby making it, not a learned skill, but a matter of fact!
To further drive home the point, the female genome is made up of two ‘X-chromosomes, so the feminine refusal factor is amplified by two.
In the life’s grand scheme, what this double negative translates too, is the WAF – Wife Acceptance Factor. As many husbands attest, the WAF is crucial in the “Happy Wife, Happy Life” equation, because to get to the holy grail of ‘Yes’, countless options have to be presented to their better half for perusal and careful consideration, with each of those choices undergoing 3 different levels of scrutiny, a round of testing and two workshops, in the hope that amongst the string of ‘No’s’, an answer in the affirmative can be found.
Men though, are much more even sided with their answers, hence the ‘XY’ chromosomes that make up the male genome. But the caveat is, that while the “Y” stands for “Yes”, it is a word that is more often than not, suffixed by the word “Dear” and a kiss, which is also denoted by an “X.” (And women wonder why men are confused…)
Make no mistake though, Marissa’s use of the word ‘No’ does mean she is a girl who knows what she doesn’t want, which in itself is a good thing and begs the question, what does she want? Initially, finding the answer to this question was difficult, as it is with all babies, but she has since mastered the phrase “I want…” and does not hesitate in using it. Thankfully, her list (at the moment) is relatively small and revolves around chocolate (funny that!), ice cream (of course!) and unsurprisingly, Marina’s plethora of shoes.
Should this statement of need be met with our refusal, she lets loose with a move Marina and I call “The Strop.” Without hesitation, Marissa empties her lungs at levels that would make banshees cower before unleashing lashings of tears. She is such an expert of crying on cue, that I am positive she is the poster child for crocodiles everywhere.
If tears or wailing does not achieve the result she covets, “The Strop” escalates into “The Huff!” I should make it very clear that this move has no relation to ‘The Hoff’; and by that I mean she does not run across a beach in slow motion singing bad European Pop music, but instead storms out of the room wailing until she finds the nearest corner to slump against, as she bookends “The Huff” with “The Sulk” – a move that is punctuated by an overly extended bottom lip.
Often these melodramatic displays happen at the most inopportune times, and is the reason Marina and I coined her nickname – Miss Kibosh. We quickly noticed that ever since she could walk, she had the inane ability to be the proverbial spanner the works.
Whether it’s dawdling in front of you when you need to get to the other side of the house in a hurry to prevent the boys’ from body-slamming each other off the furniture, standing between us and the sink when it is time to wash up, running through the pile of dirt you have just swept up, throwing a full roll of toilet paper/socks/the boys favourite lightening McQueen toy into the toilet, refusing to lie to still when getting her nappy changed, ripping off hair ties, losing her earrings, filling her nappy with a present at coffee time and the most frustrating Kibosh of them all, waking up at five thirty AM, singing at the top of her lungs and filling our home with off key warbles and ‘Kiboshing’ any chance of sleep.
Should Marina and I bring up this severe lack of timing with her, she will stare at us incredulously, as if we are the ones who are ‘Kiboshing’ her, before she dishes out a smack upside the head/head butt/a eye gouge/all of the above or if you are unlucky enough to wear glasses in her presence, she will rip them off your face and slam them onto the floor with such force that the arms get bent of shape.
I can at least take comfort that even at this young age she can take care of herself, and I know in the future, I won’t have to fend off any suitors with firearms, because Marissa will have her own set of locked and loaded shotguns (double barrel of course!) ready to pop a cap in anyone’s ass for locking their kitchen cupboards without her permission.
Based on the evidence I above, it would be easy to conclude that Marissa is the type of girl that will “Treat ‘em mean, Keep ‘em keen and Cuddle them in between”, when in fact she is so much more than a one sentence, or blog for that matter, can define. Amongst the mayhem, Marissa shines through as a little girl who has a giant heart (she will always want two scoops of ice cream so she can share one with you), a warm enveloping smile, an infectious laugh, a monstrous hug that a grizzly bear would be envious of and an exuberance for life that is contagious.
Marissa may not have been the atypical girl that we expected, but she is all we could have ever wanted and more.
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I could not end this blog without adding her theme song…
Fortress of Fatherhood 