My lady toddler is starting to have quite the personality. She will say, “Do you want to wear my tutu, sweetie?” to her little cousin as she does a shimmy. Or she will snuggle into a soft blanket and coo, “Ahhh, all nice and cozy!” Or when I help her get her clothes off for a bath she will look down, giggle to herself, and scream, “I’m naked! I’M NAKED!!! Time to dance.” and proceed to prance around the house, wiggling what her mama gave her. Or she’ll whisper, “You need to wake up, precious, m’kay? M’kay.” to her snoring dad and then in response to his “just a few more minutes, honey,” she will throw her head back in annoyance, roll her eyes, and whirl away with a flit of the wrist reminiscent of jazz hands. Wait, what?
Lately, if her request for yet another package of toddler crack is denied, she’s been known to roll her head back in defeat, look to the sky as if only the birds knew her pain, and trudge off, shoulders hunched, in pure dramatic disgust at the world. Wait, WHAT.
Where in the world does she come up with this stuff anyway? SHE’S TWO AND A HALF!
Well, it’s apparently from…ehem…me. Cue this morning: I was leaving the house early for work, so proud to get out of the house at 6AM to get a good start to my work week, when I remembered I needed to install a car seat into my mom’s vehicle for the day. Shit. She graciously was helping me watch N since her school was closed for the 4th of July holiday and that was the least I could do for her before leaving.
On a side note, is it just me or does anyone else look completely ridiculous installing car seats? I found that if I try to use my entire weight on the seat, I can get a really good hold on the straps. But that means I have to essentially sit in the damned seat and thrash about like a fox caught in a leg hold trap. Probably not good for the integrity of the car seat, I’m realizing as I write this, but I swear I saw it on YouTube once, so you know, it’s legit.
Anyway, I usually do this in the privacy of my own garage, so thank GOD it was 6AM when no one was watching me because…’t’aint pretty. I mean, I am a big person — like twice the size of most moms — so the sight of me getting my 6’1″ lanky body and fat ass into a toddler car seat and sweating and fighting and thrashing and cursing must be extraordinarily humorous to a bystander. Legs fly. Ears cringe. So thank 8-pound-6-ounce-newborn-baby Jesus I was alone in the dark.
After much annoying effort I finally finished. I slammed the door with exasperation. I threw my head back in annoyance, looking to the sky as if only the birds knew my pain. And I stomped off with defeated, hunched shoulders and a furrowed brow towards my own car in pure dramatic disgust at the world.
I then hear a giggle coming in the general direction of the shadowed driveway. And then an, “I know EXACTLY where she gets it,” in a familiar voice by my husband’s truck. I whirl around with a flit of the wrist reminiscent of jazz hands to find my husband has been observing me for a quite while.
“What do you mean? I’m not–” He reenacts my hunched, stomping walk and I instantly know. CRAP. It’s. All. Me. And so I reluctantly conceded that yes, I am a dead ringer for my daughter’s expressions. Or rather, she is a dead ringer for mine. “Yikes. Am I really that dramatic?” He just stares back, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. I’ll take that as a yes. So I’m inadvertently creating a nonverbally dramatic monster one sigh at a time. At least she’s a verbally polite dramonster, m’kay? M’kay.