I don’t remember the exact moment my two oldest girls developed into independent young people but today at one year, eleven months and seventeen days, Chloe put her mismatched, stocking feet down and in every way she knew, declared her independence.
She stood her ground at the park making no effort to shuffle even so much as sway when young Parker attempted to steal her turn spinning the wheel that leads to nowhere.
She ran up the hill, shouted from the summit, “I run down now!” as she tumbled, giggling to the bottom. Trying to stop her would prove idiotic and dangerous and nothing at all like the scene from The Princess Bride when Buttercup realizes she’s found Wesley. There are far more dislocations without a stunt double and my God, what about my tea?
As we drove home, she recognized a familiar sign and excitedly pointed, “Tim-bit Mommy. Mommy Tim-bit. Stop Mommy. Tim-bit. Perfect Mommy. Tim-bit perfect.” Of course I continued driving because I can still pretend (at least for a while) there had been a hiccup in our communication and therefore avoid purchasing a tim-bit every time I pick up a caffeinated beverage.
Twice today, she cupped my face when my reaction to her request didn’t seem a) accurate, b) fair or c) efficiently delivered.
The first time was when Hanna asked for a pickle. This request usually has Chloe bouncing off the walls for a pickle, just like her big sister.
She shouted as she ran to the kitchen, “Chloe pickle Mommy! Chloe pickle!” while dragging her very heavy, iron kitchen chair out from the table and hoisting herself up onto her booster. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and then gently tapped the table while smiling in that cute-as-a-button kind of way, “Pickle Mommy. Pickle Mommy………………………………now………………….pickle………………………….pickle.”
When pickle service was not speedy enough she hopped down from her booster, approached me in the kitchen and I knelt to meet her gaze. It’s a bit like when a movie mob boss gives an underling that reverse over-the-shoulder nod, “Am I not making myself clear?”
She held my cheeks, each with one little hand, met my eyes and as clearly as she could, desperation implied, “Pickle.” Without removing her hands, she waited for me to respond. The only acceptable response was for me to repeat the word pickle. I had no idea if she was going to get close enough to bite my nose or simply to confirm this pickle business was to be taken serioiusly. In order to loosen her grip, she was going to need to hear the word she was waiting for.
She wore her bathing cap and her sister’s bathing suit over her clothes to sit in the stands and watch (not participate in) swimming lessons.
She removed her socks and shoes in the change room when her sisters did and looked at me in disgust when she realized once again, she was merely a marker drawing, apple eating spectator and would not be getting wet.
The second time she cupped my face was when she requested a bucket which I took seriously. Buckets in this house represent one thing and one thing only—barf.
Hands securely holding cheeks, “I choking Mommy. I choking. Bocket Mommy. Bocket, I choking.”
I repeated, “You’re choking and you need a bucket?” and she removed her hands without saying a word. We understood each other, I quickly returned with a yellow barf bucket and she examined the colour, shape and the obvious (to her, not me) absence of a handle.
“Different bocket.”
Not the hands.
