Inel: The Bizarro Leni...or is it the other way around?

My mother, who had been called Ellen her whole life decided in her late 50's to start going by the name Leni. This name change also came (not coincidentally?) soon after her enormous cat Leonard passed away. Leonard, was a female long-haired black cat who my mom had inherited from her friend Bill, who later died of AIDS. Leonard had two litters of kittens, the first of which all died due to fleas. The second litter didn't fare all that much better. Two of Leonard's kittens went to Don and Penny. Penny died of cancer and then Don, struck with grief, killed himself. Two others went to Bill, whose fate I've already explained. And one of them stayed with us, we named her Deuce because she looked exactly like Leonard. Deuce, meaning two, like Leonard II. Deuce ran away and never came back. When this first happened, Leonard would stand by the door meowing and crying. As if she were calling Deuce to dinner. Over and over again. It was heartbreaking. And as Leonard slowly adjusted to the idea that her daughter was never coming back, her once slender body blew up to about three times its original size, weighing in at around 27 lbs. She looked like one of those cats in the cartoons after a bomb explodes in its hands - her black fur puffed around her chubby face. So with a history this uplifting, it's no wonder Mom wanted to commemorate it forever by changing her name. Thus Leni was born.

I, like Jen, refused to call her Leni for a long time. It seemed ridiculous to me and I assumed it would be a passing phase. But she held on to it. It wasn't until I introduced her to my mother-in-law as "Ellen" that my mom had finally had enough. She was standing on the front stoop of my Chicago apartment smoking a cigarette and called me to join her outside after my in-laws had settled inside. "Nicky, my name is Leni. Respect that." And something clicked with me then. "She wants to be called Leni," I thought, "Who am I to tell her no?" That being said, I still wince a little bit whenever I introduce her as Leni. But then again, I've been married for over six years and I'm still battling with the idea of changing my own name. Maybe I'm just uncomfortable with name changes in general.

It was one thing to accept (and respect) that her new name was Leni. But I don't think anyone ever mandated that I respect Inel. I don't know where Mom found her, but Inel was a little doll about 1/2 a foot long, who looked uncannily like a younger version of my mother. It was frightening. My mother embraced this miniaturized form of herself and named her Inel, which is Leni backwards. We were all pretty freaked out by Inel. And that kind of fear is something my mother feeds off of. The more you tell her you don't like something, the more she will throw that very thing in your face. It's like her version of immersion therapy - which ultimately is what lands you in therapy.

I remember when we were kids and Jen hated cemeteries. Any normal mother would accept that about her child. Maybe even try to assuage her daughter's fears through talking and affection. No. My mom blindfolded Jen, told her we were going on some sort of field trip and drove her straight to a cemetery. "Okay, take off your blindfold. Surprise!"

Or there was the stinky olive incident.

We were in North Carolina on vacation. I was 13 years old. My mother was eating some olives that I believed to be rather fragrant. Something like the inside of a Port-O-Potty. And I was sure to voice my opinion about them. The next thing I knew, I was pinned down on the floor with my mom hovering over me, blowing her olive breath in my face. At one point, the pit in her mouth, landed in my hair. I gagged, freed myself from her grasp, discovered that my hair had absorbed the olive odor and immediately got into the shower. Within a minute, my mother was at the bathroom door, ready to pollute my personal space with her breath once more. I still can't pass the olive bar at Whole Foods without having flashbacks.

Never show my mom your achilles. Never.

We all made that mistake with Inel. And so for the next few years, Inel would appear at every important event in our lives. Including my wedding. Inel even wore a special outfit that my mother's friend had made for her, complete with a little hat and tights. She had become my mother's sidekick. She would appear in photographs and my sisters were instructed to bring the doll with them if they left town and take pictures of Inel in different locations. I learned to hate that doll. It got to a point where I'd dread going anywhere with my mom because I knew Inel would appear. She would sit on table tops in restaurants, on dashboards, and next to my mother's lounge chair in the sun.

I don't know when Inel faded out of our lives. And I can't say I miss her. It wasn't so much that I was embarrassed by the doll, I just found the whole thing really annoying. And strangely enough, I had completely forgotten about her until Karen mentioned her in her last post and gave us Inel as a prompt. The details are honestly a little foggy. It's strange that this little doll, who used to cause me so much stress (really, I wanted to rip her little head off), is now a blurry memory. Perhaps my mother's immersion therapy worked - or at least I've learned to repress all those feelings and store them in a cold dark place where they will emerge in my late 50's when I decide to change my name to Cola and carry a Coke bottle around with me and make my son dance with it at his wedding.