Chapter Twenty-Six
Meet Jenny
The day of Jenny’s birth was the worst of my life. Jenny breathed in some poop (Google “meconium aspiration”) during the birth (what a character she was!) and had to be rushed to the neonatal ICU. A nurse told me it could either be OK, or there could be brain damage. Lena wasn’t aware of the seriousness of the problem, and I kept her in the dark, suffering through her “Isn’t this wonderful and exciting?” attitude. You know how people say “Don’t worry until you know for sure that there’ll be a problem”? Good luck with that.
But the next day the doctor told us everything was fine, and indeed Jenny has zero deficits, apart from an irrational fear of chickens. Oh, and she doesn’t like artificial banana flavoring. But other than that, she’s fine.
Jenny sometimes astonished us. When she made a fuss at night, I was more likely than Lena to tell her that she had to go back to sleep. One night, soon after she started talking, she was screaming in her crib. When I went in there, I heard her say, clear as day, “Oh, no! Not this guy.” Where the heck did that come from?
When she was one-and-a-half and we were at the San Diego Zoo, I pointed to a tiger and asked Jenny, “What’s that?” I’m expecting a response such as “Ti-Ger” or maybe “Giraffe.” Her answer, and I swear I’m not making this up: “Sumatran Tiger.” Pronounced perfectly. I look at the sign, and sure enough, that’s what it was. I know she wasn’t an expert in Panthera taxonomy, so I assume she had just heard someone else say it.
Another time a young, sedated Jenny was about to have an operation, and the doctor looked in her throat to see what size intubation tube he’d need. Jenny asked him, “What are you, a doctor or a dentist?”
We had reports from others that she sometimes used some verbal expression beyond her years, so I’m guessing she was possessed. Yeah, that’s probably it.
Jenny was lucky to inherit the “colorful character” gene from my side of the family, and the “work hard” gene from Lena’s. So, she might take a kooky class on “How to Build a Time Machine,” but if she did, she would get an A+ in it.
Jenny’s melodramatic side was problematic. At age three, she ran screaming from me in the crowded Stockholm airport. There was a real possibility that I’d lose track of her, and my mind’s eye still holds the image of her disappearing behind a wall of travelers. Her behavior was so far beyond what people expect, that one woman grabbed me and asked “Är hon din?” (“Is she yours?”). If my Swedish were better, I might have answered, “No, Lady, I’m a kidnapper. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. Now, can you help me catch her?” I finally caught up with Jenny, and all was well.
So, in spite of the rocky start, Jenny has turned into a great human being. Except for the artificial banana flavor thing.