Like how she sat on the toilet and yelled for me, desperately. I hurried to the bathroom, picturing her having fallen in, or poo smeared across the floor, or toilet paper strewn about, or the toilet overflowing... But no. She was on the toilet, leaning over her thighs and had pulled the lid down, so it rested on her back, angled toward the ceiling. "Mom, look! I'm a turtle!" How I wish I had a picture of that, and of the smirk on her face.
Like the huge wound I gave myself walking back to work after lunch last week. A large portion of my left shin was deposited on a frozen wooden bridge. Ouch. I've been letting her watch it heal, day by day, explaining how blood isn't "bad", how scabs are our bodies healing, how it takes time, etc. She's concerned my wound will "jump to her knee".
Like how another child at preschool decided to hit her in the head repeatedly for no reason other than she was telling a story about bumblebees. It's ugly to picture some child hitting my child, but isn't that part of growing up? Learning that not everyone is your friend, that people can be mean, sometimes for no understandable reason. That you have to learn to deal with it in your way and move on. She didn't cry, she didn't hit back. Maybe someday she'll hit back, and I'm not sure how I really feel about that. There's a time when it's needed and warrented, no doubt. Apparently I punished some boy for picking on me when I was young (Kindergarten?) by kicking him in the boy-parts, much to my mother's surprise. I think he stopped picking on me.
It's Valentine's Day. Audrey almost kept my present from James a secret. Except for when she shout-whispered, "Mommy, we got you music for Valentine's Day, but it's a secret!"
1 comments:
I read it - keep it up!
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