We are in the official doldrums of summer over here. It’s hot hot hot and the new owners of our apartment complex* have decided to forgo opening the pool in exchange for lowering our rent by $30. I’ll take those savings, but I’d prefer a pool when the mercury rises. Having B home is great of course but his presence does nothing to improve my reputation as The Hard One in these parts. He will gladly watch Cookie Monster whenever Wee Cee demands it, whereas my idea of a good time is vacuuming while she screams at me to play play PLAY with her. Instead of, oh, I dunno, retreating to her nursery where she has roughly ninety billion toys to amuse her, she covers her ears, whines, and tries to pull the plug out of the wall. I suppose she thinks that the instant she leaves my side I will break out all the cookies and eat them without her knowing. Which I might, but really, I’d be more discrete than that, kiddo.
*The owners head up a firm called “Bear Investments,” and I often imagine a group of bears sporting those green visors that old-timey accountants wear, and carrying around leases in one paw and honeycombs in the other.
But while my summer activities around the home are largely domestic and boring, the now 15-month-old Cee wants to be a part of them. Scratch that; she demands to be a part of them. Thus another chapter in the annals of Why I Just Want To Use the Toilet Alone. Even the innocuous task of preparing a glass of ice water for myself whips her into a frenzy. I can’t do it without her lisping “icshe” and whining until I allow her to submerge her entire forearm into my glass. Once she acquires the water, I move on to the activity of making our bed. Like the little duckling that she is, she abandons the water and dutifully follows me into our room to oversee my work. She bangs her hand on the side of our platform bed, insisting to be let up onto it so she can make like Evel Knievel and jump off. At this point, she has caught wind of this place called the “emergency room” and wants to see what the big hubbub is about. I fight off her advances and encourage her to sit on the floor and watch me as I perform the riveting activity of straightening the sheets.
“Cee. Please wait. I’ll play on the bed with you when I’m finished.”
“One moment, Sweetie.”
Bang bang bang.
“Cee, you heard me the first time. Please wait, my darling.”
RAWR. Stomp stomp stomp.
“Cee, look. I’m putting the pillows on the bed at this very instant. You will literally only have to wait for maybe two more seconds.”
And then this happens:
This same child who only a few weeks ago celebrated each nap with gusto and fervency will now scream and moan for a good fifteen minutes when I put her in her crib, AKA a pit of snakes and unpleasantness. The idea of her being separated from us for an hour absolutely roils her. You see, I don’t accompany her into the crib because I have BLOGGING to do when she is asleep, and as much as I’d love for her to write a guest post, there are only so many combinations of the words “cookie,” “ice”, “car”, “dirty”, “daddy”, “mama”, and “poo-poo” that can be created without me beginning to sound like a giant frozen turd/tasty cookie treat.
Don’t get me wrong; I cave often. I’ll drop whatever I am doing and spend time with my gal who clearly wants to hang out with me in a context wherein the chances of me saying “no” to her are diminished. And since I’ve yet to find a way that she can injure herself while reading, I will happily read to her any book that she brings to me. She’ll bring over The Best Mouse Cookie and we’ll settle in like champs. I should be clear, though, that it’s not the book in its entirety that she wants me to read. Instead, it’s the third page wherein the mouse listens to the radio while he starts putting the cookie batter together. Cee thinks that page is pretty amazing, so we never progress beyond that point in the book since she will just have me read that one page seventeen times in a row. Does the mouse ever get his cookies made? Questions for the ages.
We’re melting away here in the American South, but when I’m not busy scouring Pinterest for basil and strawberry limeade vinaigrette popsicles that I will likely never make, I will appreciate the fact that I am still deemed groovy enough to be followed around by Wee Cee. She makes for one adorable little 21 pound shadow.