“Whooooo hooo hoo, Alright!” I heard my husband exclaim from inside the house.
Shortly after that, the back storm door protested loudly and slammed behind tiny footsteps, “Mom! Mom!”
My daughter pushed at the stubborn gate until it gave way and she found me raking out a flower bed in the side yard, “Look!” she yelled, holding in her hand a nearly invisible baby tooth.
“Whoa! It came out!”
“Yeah. I just forgot about it and bit into my strawberry and it and, yeah,” she threw her hands up.
We headed inside to swish with some salt water and put her tooth in a safe place.
This will be the tooth fairy’s second visit in a week. My daughter is beginning to like this little woman and so decided to write her a note. Tonight, its all dreams of flitting fairies and charm. Tomorrow, it’s all blends and digraphs practice.
“Mom, can you say ‘I didn’t know you could reach all the way back there’?”
My two year old is stretched over the back seat of the truck, her toes briefly losing contact with the seat. I stand patiently in the rain for her to get into her freaking her car seat already. This phrase about her reaching ability is one I’m asked to repeat almost daily since the first time I said it.
What she’s reaching for is a box. Specifically a box earmarked for the donation center. But every time I utter that reaching phrase, a single item from the box worms it’s way into the back seat and shortly after that, wriggles all the way back to the house.
And still I stand in the rain. Not just to avoid a potential meltdown, but because at least that box is full of books.
I almost wrote an acceptance speech tonight on behalf of myself and my husband for winning the parents of the night award. Because (bow to the left, bow to the right) we didn’t lose our shit on our child. Hardly even once.
After the whining,
because of a play she wanted to put on that couldn’t happen right then.
That her two-year-old sister wouldn’t cooperate in.
That she hadn’t actually planned.
That’s what I almost wrote.
But then at bedtime I pulled out her writing journal to read her stories with her.