So, this happened tonight. D2 is busy imitating D1, in making “esperiments” on the toy kitchen and asked for “gredients”, so I give her about a half cup of flour, and a half cup of sugar. To mix with water and make an esperiment. Did she eat her dinner? Of course not. Did she down the entire half cup of sugar? Of course she did. At one point I was fixing dinner, and she was very cautiously and conscientiously spooning the sugar/flour mixture into her toy soup pot, and the next time I looked over she had downed the entire thing and had an ASU frat boy line of crystallized sugar under her nose.
I have always known that D2 is going to be our problem child. She is told not to do something and then looks at us sweetly and just does the thing she wants. Heaven, help us.
Today was good. I was at one of the best staff meetings we’ve had in years, and usually those things are the equivalent of the tenth circle of hell, and I did a marathon grading sesh down in my building, all by my lonesome. I am now caught up. Or, nearly. Close enough. Then I came home to crockpot venison roast and gorgeous and impish girlies. They make me laugh every day, so everyday is a good day in some way.
So, a poem from the three year-old gaze? So be it.
I want my boots on to go to bed. Yes, now. I want them now.
And now, after brushing my teeth, I want, I want. I’m hung-ary.
Now, right now.
I want to blow bubbles and chase the dog
and the clock doesn’t mean a damn thing to me,
now, right now.
Right now I need fresh in my waterbottle,
and you must get me my baby, and my horses,
and THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT BLANKET.
Do not discount my experience.
It is yours, reflected. And I am feeling so small,
so small that I need all right the blankets now.
NO, THAT IS NOT THE RIGHT ONE.
Don’t you know me at all?
Let’s dance and spin around until we shriek.
Let’s do fishin’ in the dark,
for the eleventy-millionth time.
When I perform this dance and song,
damn your eyes if you look at me.
Shy, what? So shy, but I dance and sing so that you will listen and watch and put down your phone.
Put it down, look away, towards me a bit, but look away,
not at your phone and not at me, exactly,
but if you could just look in the reflection of me in the shiny glass or window,
that would be good,
and if we could spin a lot to the right song before bed, that would be great.
I will call down from the top stairs,
that my boots hurt and I want them off,
and you will come valiantly, charging up this hill, to remove them.
I know you will.
A child poem. That feels about right tonight. They are my saving grace right now, and if that is a cliche, so be it. Happy Tuesday, poemfriends.