the long and the short of it

The writer would like to acknowledge that a) this post is entirely about her and not really about the kids below, kids she fully realizes are only two years old no matter how she adultifies them, and b) is seriously considering psychiatric assistance.

M has had a long standing fascination with one particular kid at school. It's been going on for months, and it's been a strange evolution for her mother. At first, her preoccupation was absurd, she would scream I love N over and over. She'd repeat his name all the time. And then we'd arrive and she'd run up to him and he'd turn and walk off. Just like that. And she'd glance sheepishly over her shoulder at me with a sort of what now glance.

So I kind of wanted to whack him. I don't begrudge many two year olds, but don't diss my kid, kid. I'm watching you.

But you know, we play it free and easy at Casa Talia. So I hung in there for the next few months, as M chattered on and on about N, while daycaregivers would muse about the strangeness of the fascination, the duration, the amusement. And on it went.

And every so often, N would toss her a bone. I'd come in and see them playing together, and when she saw me her face lit up, saying momma, look, N! And I'd say yes baby, I see you and N are playing, looks like a lot of fun.

It's this that I keep discovering - finding the joy in the things that joy your child. And I want to be in that space with her, watching her discover it.

And then lately, N has started to come around. When we walk into the room (he is always there before we arrive and still there when I pick her up, a long day for our buddy N) he comes up and says hello. To me. (mama's still got it, baby). By the way, dude has vocab. He can practically recite poetry while M is all crazy like lookeemoommeeeegooohommeeee.

And then the other day we were trying to get out the door and in the car when M wandered into our bushes, intent on finding a leaf for N. And nothing was going to move her till she found it. So leaf hunting we go, finding the one or two she wants and carefully take them off the branch and tiny fingers grasp them all the way to school, saying leaf for N, leaf for N, over and over.

We arrive at daycare and M spots N. N, she exclaims. Leaf! And he wanders over and she thrusts the leaf at him in that mixed aggressive/sweet/duck and cover sort of way, and N picks up the leaf, and looks at it, and they wander off, heads bowed together.

I'd be lying if I didn't get a bit weepy. Whatever. Refer to disclaimer b.

And when I picked up her up that night, N walked up to me, as is becoming more common, and said very quietly can I have a hug? And with M watching, I leaned down and gave him one, while catching M in the corner of my eye, wearing a grin that could split a tree in half. As he let go of me she ran squealing saying hug, hug, hug, and pummeled N around the waist, and the two of them hugged goodbye. And M proceeded to talk about that moment all night long, to me, to her daddy, to me, to her daddy. All night long.

And that's where it gets yummy. That while a) and b) are still obviously valid, that it is about supporting and loving your kid while they test the waters in all sorts of situations, ones that will work out and ones that will not, and how much I want to make sure I celebrate her victories and process her defeats - and how I want to wildly scream and cheer and get down with her joyousness.

Which in fact, I did. As we drove home and she kept squealing and screeching N hug mommee, me hug N over and over and over, I, too, was laughing and giggling and wild with joy.

See, it's this: We are mother and daughter.

We are mother, and we are daughter. And we are figuring the whole thing out.