Loving a Goat

Unlike what the title might imply, this is not about goat fucking. I do not visit rural areas to scratch an itch or loiter menacingly around petting zoos. Rest assured livestock owners, my pecker is not going anywhere near your peckers. That's just fowl. In my wildest dreams, I cannot imagine writing about goat fucking. I'll leave that to Edward Albee, who in my humble opinion, is the best goat fucking writer there is.

My friend says children are either goats or bunnies. The goats being demanding, non trusting, cranky and rude; the bunnies, cuddly, gentle, agreeable and easy-going. Our six year old, Sebastian, was a bunny baby. Loved people, traveled well, ready to offer an easy smile. Our two year old daughter, Maxwell Pearl, is a goat through and through. She whines, moans, cries and screams seventy-five percent of her wakeful day. "No" explodes from her mouth like artillery much more frequently than "yes," only to be outnumbered by "Idonwanna!"

She is frustratingly independent. She has to do things herself and is reluctant to ask for or accept help. This is a bitch if she's failing at the task at hand, because invariably she'll scream. But God help you, if you offer assistance without her asking, she'll just scream louder.

Michael and I were unloading groceries yesterday and Maxie was running around naked, which is her wont. She entered the kitchen holding the end of a long strand of toilet paper, about twenty feet I'd say. We both watched as she went over to where, unbeknownst to both of us, she took a dump. Although unsanitary, in this instance her independence worked in our favor. She insisted on cleaning up her own mess.

Maxie started school this week. And as I dropped off my cloven-hoofed child on her first day, it crossed my mind she might cause such a caterwauling we will be banned from every pre school in the LA area. But I underestimated my little girl. She has a sense of propriety. Her carrying on is for in house only. Lucky us. Rather than scream, Maxie's independent spirit kicked in. So she wouldn't have to share, she handed me her thing-in-hand. She then turned and walked away without looking back. No tantrum, no kiss goodbye either. My strong-willed daughter.

And I warn you cooers, if you approach my girl expecting an infectious smile or a coy head toss, you will be disappointed. One of two things will happen. Either she will pretend you do not exist, looking off in the distance. Or she will cut her eyes at you, the likes of which I haven't seen since teaching special ed high school students in inner city Brooklyn. "Who the fuck do you think you're looking at?"

Is she persnickety because she's the only female in the house? Because she's the second child? Because we saddled her with the name Maxwell Pearl?

There are days when the goat is left behind, she leads with a throaty laugh, and is just plain goofy. I cherish those moments. But for the most part, terrible doesn't cover the twos Maxie Pearl experiences from day to day. They are treacherous, even torrential.

Here comes the corn pone... I love that little girl deeply. I wouldn't trade her for a lifetime supply of sleep-in mornings and inappropriate massages. Her growth and development astound me. Her intelligence, off the charts. Her sense of humor, impish and quirky. And I look forward to knowing the woman she will become.

Last image: Maxie at Michael's and my "legal" wedding in October. Such an open face that day; full smile, eyes full of joy, an absolute bunny. I pity the fools who try to invalidate her daddies' marriage. My taciturn goat will return, and they will have to deal with the wrath that is Maxwell Pearl.