Black Is the New Black

The other mothers were obviously wondering why I was wearing black nail polish to the Fancy Nancy-themed birthday party.

"It's called 'Nocturnelle,'" I whispered to one woman who was staring in alarm at my hands. "By MAC."

She was immaculate in a white linen suit and wearing something eggshell-pinky on her perfectly-manicured fingers.

"It's not really black," I tried again. "It's deep grey."

Truth was, it was the black nail polish I had bought for Emma and me for Halloween when we dressed as vampires. And the reason I was wearing it in mid-summer at a party where little girls were parading in matching pastel tutus and twirling chiffon parasols goes back to my desire to impress Quinny.

Quinny is a tough customer. While Emma seems to have just accepted me as this woman who landed in her life like a friendly alien one day, Quinny has always been a little skeptical.

I am a third wheel to Quinny. He has a mama whom he adores. If you ask him his favorite ice cream flavor, he'll say "Mama." He loves to go to "Mama's Bank," which he apparently believes Mama owns and keeps stocked with lollipops just for him. And of course, he has Papa, too, who carries him around on his head and tickles him just right. So with lollipops, tickles and all that love, who needs this other lady with her incessant hand washing and rules against lightsabers in the living room?

Quinny understands that I carried his beloved brother Henry in my belly and that I am therefore Henry's Mama. So he begrudgingly accepts that I have to be in the house, sort of like the late party guest who brings a case of beer after the liquor store is closed. No matter how you feel about him, you have to let him in.

Of course, for my part, I am wild about Quinny. I haven't known this kind of unrequited love since my freshman year of high school when the basketball player I had a mad crush on wanted nothing to do with me. He worked in the mall and I spent hours teasing my bangs into an irresistible hedgerow before gracing his counter with my presence, only to be ignored. My only solace is that he still works at the Chick-Fil-A.

But back to Quinny. I decided that we would make Star Wars cookies. Taking my cue from McDonalds, I thought I could endear myself to Quinny by aligning myself with his favorite franchise.

We bought Star Wars cookie cutters and new baking sheets so they wouldn't burn. Quinny and I made the dough together and pressed it into Darth Vader and Yoda shapes. Giddy with success and Quinny's smile, I announced that we would now make Darth Vader icing.

Having slept maybe three hours, I took the container of black food coloring, popped off the lid and then shook it vigorously. Quinny watch wide-eyed as I sprayed the kitchen with what looked like squid ink. The floor, counter tops and appliances all had leopard spots. Somehow, Quinny was spared, but I looked like a chimney sweep.

"Papa! We had an accident!" Quinny shouted. I put my hand over his mouth, instantly covering his face with black fingerprints.

"Ha ha ha!" I said. "Isn't this fun? This is how you're supposed to make Darth Vader icing."

"Papa!" screamed Quinny.

It took a roll of paper towels and an entire container of wet Swiffers to clean the kitchen. By the time I was finished, Quinny had lost interest in decorating the cookies. And I had about 5 minutes to get ready for the birthday party. So I loofaed myself until my face, neck and chest were covered in pale green rather than black blotches, but my fingernails still looked like I had been making mud pies. So I quickly coated them with black nail polish.

Emma eyed me critically.

"Black nail polish really isn't in style anymore," she informed me.

"I know," I said.

"Grey is in," she offered.

"I know."

"Mama wears grey," Emma continued. "It looks really pretty. It's called 'Chinchilla.'"