Colours

This morning, you professed to be on board with tobogganing in the park, but then you lay on the floor in your pyjamas poomin’ various targets with your stick. When I finally wrangled you into some clothes, you chastised me for the snugness of your turtleneck. Then you ran and hid your face in the blankets when I said it was time to brush your teeth. After more than an hour of these and other departure delaying antics, a slate grey cloud of annoyance hovered over my head as we walked to the park.

When we got to the park, I was pleased to see that the hill I was thinking of was just your size. You sat on the toboggan, trying to get yourself going down the hill by wiggling your bum around. I gave the toboggan a little push with my foot and you chastised me again for my unsolicited help, steamy bile-green frustration rising up off of you.

Eventually you acquiesced. After a few successful Mommy-powered runs, your toboggan had carved a sleek path in the snow, making it easier for you to do it all by yourself. And so you did, each run down the hill taking you a little bit further, propelling your confidence higher and higher. Finally, towards the end of one particularly successful run, you lifted your hands off the grips, tentatively at first, then thrusting them full above your head in victory.

When the toboggan stopped, you looked back toward me, making sure that someone had witnessed your triumph. There was only a small window of your face visible between the fleecy borders of your hat and scarf, yet I could clearly see the delight dancing in your eyes; your cheeks and nose dusted with a particular shade of frosty pink that I can only conclude is the colour of joy.

Take These Broken Wings and Learn to Fly

We are playing playdough when she suddenly scampers down from her chair at the kitchen table.

Just a minute! she warns me in serious tones, her tiny index finger crooked to the left and hovering right in front of her face. I'm going to get da lay-dee-bug.

She crouches down on the floor and gingerly puts her finger out so her bug can crawl on. Then she walks slowly over to where I am sitting and extends her finger out towards me, its hitchhiker invisible to the naked eye.

You wanna hold my lay-dee-bug, mom? she asks, bright blue eyes hopeful and serious. I touch my finger to hers and bring her pet right up to my face.

She's so cute! I exclaim, pretending to count the bug's tiny spots before carefully transferring it back to her.

She gingerly sets the ladybug back on the floor and returns to make green spaghetti and meatballs with me. Within three minutes, the ladybug is forgotten. I never did see that bug with my eyes, but I could feel it brought to fleeting life by my baby's boundless imagination.

***************************************
I have been focusing too much on the ragged underbelly of two. On the tiny fists pounding the floor; the eyes locking with mine in defiance before sweeping all of the just-tidied books off the shelf; the implacable demands coming from the back seat of the car with such rapid fire that I'm almost certain I can feel blood dripping out of my ears, staining the shoulders of my sweater.

Two can be trying.

But Two is inherently sweet. Two throws her arms around your neck and kisses you in public for no reason. Two has found her imagination and can play circles around her older siblings. Two can take any group of inanimate objects and make them into a family. Two doesn't pull her hand away when you rub it obsessively with your thumb because the skin feels addictively soft, like talcum powder. Two laughs with her whole body. Two beckons you down to ground level to see things you wouldn't have noticed on your own.

Two is simply trying to figure out this life.

********************************************
I'm making dinner at the island in the kitchen when she spirits past me, her arms flapping up and down with abandon.

Come fly with me! she beckons. Come fly with this mama and her baby bird!

Even though we need to eat early because it's piano night, even though my hands are covered with flour, I take off from my perch and flap my arms, keeping pace behind her. I get a sideways glance from the skeptical 9-year-old at the computer, but I don't stop. What else can I do? A bird's gotta fly.