Friday, March 8, 2013
I Can Carry My Own Bag
I mentioned a few posts back about the glue that is my five-year-old. She still can't get enough of her Mama. When she and I came home from yoga last night, The Dad surprised her with the season's first batch of Cadbury Eggs. She hurriedly ripped off the foil, took a big bite, and winced.
Ugh. I don't even like these any more! The sugar gives me a headache!
The Dad was indeed crestfallen. That was their thing, their sugary bond. Since I have never ever, in the history of ever, liked those confections, he said to me, "stop stealing her away from me."
Dude. I haven't changed- but she has. 5.1 years as a Daddy's Girl, gone just like that in February.
We spend mornings snuggled in bed, The Today Show on, drinking coffee and applesauce pouches and YouTubing hair curling tutorials. We sing our faces off to that ridiculous Macklemore song- and she tries to figure out the lyric the radio station bleeps out before "awesome" ... I'll give you a hint. It starts with an Eff. We talk about our Grandma's and plan our outfits and veto boots and talk about the Wade vs. George saga on Hart of Dixie.
So basically, we're Besties or sisters or roommates or all of the above.
I often forget she's a mere five. I've said that before.
We had some hours the other evening and I asked her what she wanted to do.
She wanted to do manis and pedis and have wine and OJ in stems.
So we did.
Then I urged her to color with Daddy. Make a damn mess. Color on my carpet. Lose the caps.
Go be a kid, basically.
I often forget she's a mere five.
She's an only child.
She always will be.
She spends her days as the Mother Hen at daycare and with her friends at Pre-K.
But she comes home to her Mama and Daddy.
We're filling her hours and brain and vocabulary.
She has more common sense than most adults I know. She uses the correct tenses of verbs.
She. Makes. Me. Lunch.
Old souls, table for two please.
Simply, I don't want to ruin her.
I don't want her to be perpetually bored.
Or high maintenance.
I hate Play-Doh vehementienetly but want her to love it.
When she has Target money to spend, I want My Little Ponies in the cart and not a faux Barbie Blackberry.
I want her to sob hysterically, and cling to my thigh, just once when I drop her off somewhere.
The first day of kindergarten would be ideal.
Instead of sauntering into that place in her wee aviators with her lipgloss poppin', bidding me Peace Out, MamaLiscious.
She was the anti-baby. Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Peace. Peace. Peace.
Dominate, dominate, dominate.
She ruined the Dad and I.
Made life way too simple ...
... and is stretching that into her youth.
"What do you want for dinner?" I ask her.
I dunno. Something healthy, like some fruit?
"OK great. Here is a sundae made with blue cotton candy, an ICEE and gummy bear sauce. Enjoy!"
Mama. You KNOW sugar gives me a headache ... banana!
When my own Mama asked me yesterday how the lil' dude was, I told her she hopes the Easter Bunny brings her her very own curling iron. My own Mama laughed ... 'Sounds like someone else I know!' I told her when she plays House and mothers her four babies, she asked me to make a spreadsheet of their vaccinations to put in their baby books- like I did with her updated shots last week. She even makes life simple for her imaginary babies' imaginary daycare ladies and imaginary schools.
I'd beg time to stop, but time has never been the culprit.
The culprit is her tiny spirit, her determined personality, her ridiculous heart.
Her appetite for life.