Coffee Shop Solitude

Remember the other day ... Mere hours ago, really, when I was going on and on about my child being too big, too old, too unchildlike? In turn making me fret, making me proud?

I am sitting here, in our fave coffee shop alone ... Blogging about getting shot down by said five-year-old this morning when I told her where we were headed.

"No thanks, Mama. "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" is on and I have been thinking about those turtles for dayyyyyyyyys."

I know. She said that.

I'm actually happy. She's nestled in the recliner surrounded by her pink NaNa from infancy, a Sleeping Beauty pillow, Scooby Doo fleece blanket, in her faded purple nightgown bearing horses. Clutching her purple stuffed unicorn and asking for milk with her atrocious morning breath.

My baby. Right where she is supposed to be.

"Hey can you please bring me a star cookie and pink lemmelade when you come back?"

Sure babe. Anything for you.

Mama loves.

Stay little, damnit.

Back to my own Turtle (mocha), Kim Kardashian, and Mumford & Sons station on Pandora.
Life is rad.

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.

Lunch Breaking

After she spent her first morning of spring break in her underpants watching Pioneer Woman Cooks, and episode after episode of Bobby Flay, my girl announced it was time for lunch, and she was preparing it.

I was working in the office downstairs. She told me to stay put as her cast and crew of ingredients were assembled on the counter ... I saw Ranch, Sweet Baby Ray's BBQ sauce, and a Lunchable before she shooed me out of her way.

I was bangin' away on my crap for the day when she arrived at my elbow, plate in hands, Beagle on heels some minutes later. Her smile was 14 miles wide. She literally, was beaming.

On my Toy Story plate was a bowl of homemade "sauce"- the aforementioned Ranch, BBQ sauce, ketchup, and diced-up Grandma S. homemade horseradish dills. Served as accompaniments were Ritz crackers and 'Lemonades' Girl Scout cookies.

Beaming.

And, of course those nasty joy-killing thoughts crept into my brain as I accepted my lunch from my daughter. You know, the logic that usually puts a damper on unadulterated awesomeness? Like, I had already eaten. Like, I avoid gluten and processed sugar as much as possible. Like, Ranch with what?! And lastly ... oh, those pickles. Those beloved pickles from my Grandma! My precious stock of limited supply pickles of love!

You know what? My Grandma would be thrilled to pieces to learn her great-granddaughter was cookin' in a snowstorm in her underpants for her Mama's love and satiety.

I pulled my nude chef into my lap and hugged and thanked her for my meal. I told her how impressed I was with presentation and that the sauce was ridiculous. I ladled those chunks of cut-by-the-hand-of-a-five-year-old pickles onto those buttery, gluteny Ritz and savored each bite. I twisted the cookies apart in Oreo fashion and licked the icing clean from the shortbread. I made that meal count.

I also chased it with plenty of water!

I offered the lil' dude several opportunities to try her creation. She balked at each offer.

Smart girl.

She simply said she made me lunch because she knew I was busy and she wanted to help me. That's true intention, too. There wasn't any ulterior motives at play, either. Make Mama food; make Mama happy.

There's been countless times I've been delighted by motherhood. Like, those times when her star really started to shine and her personality was revealed- when people compared her to me and commented on similarities us. There have been times when she has picked up on sadness around her and hugged the crap out of who (or, let's be honest, what) needed hugging. Times where I said out loud, "I have done my job here," in any regard to being a boastful parent.

But when she handed me plate of love yesterday, I really, really knew she's already got life on lock. Doing things for the people she loves simply to revel in the happiness and appreciation of tiny acts of selfless love.

And when she says, by making you/him/her/it happy, I am happy, I know she means it because that, America, is unteachable. There is no chapter on raising selfless, charitable, and generous kids. You can hope ... that's about as far as you can take it, though.

When I went to put my dishes away, I saw she had even cleaned the kitchen. Put the ingredients away, and put the cutting board and knife (a butter knife) in the sink. This time, my eyes threatened to spill over. She was so intentional down to the last detail. I had expected (that logic again rearing its ugly head) the kitchen to look exactly like a five-year-old had made lunch in it for the first time ever ... bottles on their side, contents leaking onto my cabinets, floors, and refrigerator doors left open and dishes strewn about. There wasn't even a drop of pickle juice to be found, no stray crumbs.

Just one overwhelmed, grateful Mama.
And, one sad, unfed Beagle.

That's What She Said

I am sure when people witness me with the lil' dude, my phone firmly in my hand, they assume I'm just like every other overworked and over-connected parent in the world.
Well, I am not.
I mean ... yes. I am overly-connected. Guilty.

But when it comes to time with my daughter, I am avidly documenting every single she says, thinks, does, and looks like with that phone. I have a note started that has her Quotes of the Day on it. I have 4,000 pictures of her. I don't ever, ever want to forget her nuances, creativity, fears whether legit or not, or misheard lyrics. Phone in hand; baby girl in heart.

Here are some of my current fave lil' dude-isms:

At my bedside one sunny morning, Do you have pants on under there? If you don't I am not getting in with you. 

On seeing Kim Kardashian on TV, She is SO pretty! But where did she come from?

On having the sun in her face when it was -2* outside, The sun is NOT doing its job today! It's out but I am still freezing!

Driving down a stomach-dropping hill, Whoa! That made my tushy worried!

On her Daddy's skills, If he built the Beagle's doghouse, why couldn't he build a barn for my real-life horse?

On why Saturday morning basketball isn't very awesome, I figured it out, Mama. It's because there is NO music in that gym!

On being asked to be her Godfather's Flower Girl in May, If I don't get to wear a flower actually in my hair, I don't get why they call it that?

On listening to CeeLo Green's newest song, Mama ... he says a BAD word in that song! I want to tell you what it is ... can I if it's bad? Well ... he said (as I brace for the eff-bomb or worse) ... stupid!

On future plans, I hope (Bestie) E. goes to college with me. I want to French braid her hair in the dorm.

On her new, kiwi-flavored and green GoGurt, Ummmm, the blueberries are rotten in this. I won't eat it!

On possessions, When can we have that garage sale to sell my baby stuff? I want a new American Girl cat and bed and my piggy bank is out of paper money. (over her mother's dead body)

On anything, everything, and all the time, I am freaking out. I am going to freak out.

On her Daddy's singing skills, Daddy you are cancelled from singing all girl songs Mama and me like on the radio.

On practical uses, handing me back her banana 10 minutes after she wanted to eat it, Well, I didn't want to eat it ... I just wanted to know what it was like to hold with the peeler open.

On infinite love, I love you to the universe ... because it's bigger than the earth.

Stuck Like Glue

Imitation is the highest form of flattery ... especially when it comes in the form of tiny, blonde sprite.
Hello, my name is Lil' Dude's Mama and my five-year-old is in love with me.
And I'm the happiest girl on the planet.

The Dad and I were away last weekend and Kid Rock was left in the care of her grandparents for three delicious days. When we came home, I had a tiny barnacle stuck to me and we're still going strong all these days later. Since she and I were both off Monday, we trekked to our fave coffee shop. We quickly realized the combination of President's Day and local students and lunch time meant "our" spot was taken. We settled in at the counter to wait for $21 of coffee shop ridiculous awesomeness.

Mama, this isn't working. I can't see you this way. We need a booth. I will watch for people to leave, she told me, scanning the crowd. I assumed she meant she needed her space to set out Monopoly, the Star Wars version, of course, or a puzzle or Go Fish. Our standard routine.

No. What she needed was her Mama, front in center.

She found us a booth and we resettled into our space where we went on to have a killer conversation for a few hours, completely devoid of distractions other than hamming it up for the camera, lipgloss applying, and whipped cream stealing. We just sat and visited like little chatty birds, woman-to-woman,  big to little.

Days like Monday leaving me shaking my head in disbelief; she's only five? I have known her forever, she's woven into my soul and pumps through my veins. She's my purpose and retribution and focus and flight. She's literally ... me.

Tuesday morning we rocked matching infinity scarves and stunner shades. She told me she'd tried wearing her scarf all day like I do, even though she doesn't understand why I'd want to.

She loved it, all day long.
Warm neck + fashion = For the win. Teach 'em young!

Yesterday, I came out in long-sleeved and short-sleeved layered tees, busted up jeans, a belt, and boots. So did she. We even had to perfect her front-tuck like Mama. Hashtag, trend.

She sings my songs. And I sing hers. She steals my glitter and feathers and buttons and pearls. I tell her she's capable and brave and hilarious and a rockstar.

We're women; we spar. I tried to reason and so does she. We're cut from the same cloth and come from a long line of headstrong women who make no excuses or apologies for the way they are. I try to remember she is literally watching every move I make right this second. I try to remember this as I love myself. As I exhibit politeness on the street. As I judge humanity. How I talk about how lucky we are to have what we have. As I eat vegetables, take vitamins, send thank you's and count my blessings.

She walks on her tip-toes in her Uggs; emulating the way I walk in my heeled boots.
She reminds me to cross my legs when we're sitting.
Just like my Mom or Grandma would.

She races to read my Bible, People, before I even do.
That's dangerous ground, girl ...
She looks for her favorite actress, Amanda Seyfried, and we discuss her style.
A+ - always, AND, she has a dog she never is without.
Amanda, babe, you have the tiniest, fiercest fan out here in the Midwest.
Be good!

Because she's watching you like she's watching me and that's the most important thing ever.
In the history of ever.

On Being Fancy

She's a girl, that's for sure.
She thinks pants are lame. Lame.
So bedtime ritual includes laying out the next day's outfit because that shit takes forever when you're five and your walk-in closet is better than your mother's.

Pre-K schedule has the lil' dude playing outside on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. So, preparation for those days includes pants. It's the worst ... but not worse than managing a wardrobe malfunction including snow pants, a skirt or dress, and tights.

So yesterday was a fancy outfit-approved day since no snow pants were involved.
She laid out the ruffliest ensemble she owned in anticipation.
And then we got a blizzard, and school was cancelled and when she woke up just shy of noon, she donned her Monday fancy anyways. I told her she didn't need to waste that outfit on a day at home that included eating fistfuls of CheezIts, painting, singing Katy Perry into my round brush, and cuddling with Mama.

Waste? It's not wasting my dress, Mama. Today is just another today and I wearing the outfit I already picked out! I like feeling fancy. It makes me happy and today, I am happy.

When You Grow Up

Your face was rocked off yesterday when you got to Preschool and a whole new Veterinarian's office was set up for your class. Complete with needy, stuffed pets, stethoscopes, and white lab coats, you were in your element.

On the way home, you starting talking about college- it's your new obsession. College, college. We talk about your plans for 13+ years from now like it's something you'll do before the thaw. You definitely decided without a doubt yesterday that you're going to be a Vet when you grow up. You're quite sure you'll attend the same college as your father- because it's where you currently take swimming lessons and is close to home. Makes sense. Yes, you can go there to become a Vet. Or at least lay the ground work towards such ambition. Yes, you bring your own clothes, laptop, music, and learn to make your own food (but not drinks; ahem) in your room. You can have bunk-beds, you have to have a roommate, yes, she'll be a girl, and yes, without a freaking doubt, you can bring your NaNa with.

{Your mother brought her baby blanket to college; she was unapologetic about it to anyone who asked. And look at how awesome she turned out}

As I tucked you in last night you asked, What if I want to be a princess? Can I still go to college? Do they teach girls how to be princesses at Daddy's College?

You have plenty of time to decide what you want to be when you grow up, babe. Princess Veterinarian as a double major? Absolutely.