Emerson has been going through a phase, well, I guess every toddler goes through this phase, where she comes up with every excuse to not have to go to sleep.
“My belly hurts!
I have to go potty! I need to brush my teeth again! I need water! My bed isn’t
comfy!” We’ve heard every excuse.
In the midst of
this back and forth the other night, I was laying in bed with her, and she
started “booping” my nose. She’d boop, I’d laugh, she’d CRACK UP. Like, guttural,
undeniable deep belly laughs.
Pretty soon we were both in tears, all because
she booped my nose.
The other day, I
pretended to be a horsey and rode Anna all around the house while she squealed “Go
Horsey Go!”
My knees are covered in bruises.
Last week, we
were drawing with chalk outside on the sidewalk. Emerson told me to lay down so
she could draw an outline of my body on the sidewalk. So I did. Work clothes
and all. Then once Anna saw that I did it for Emerson, she had to do it too, so
I had to lay back down for a second
time so little Anna could mimic her sister.
Our neighbors were probably really
confused.
Every night at
dinner, these two tiny girls make a PROPER mess. I mean, it looks the garbage
man came and dumped his truck contents on our kitchen table. Emerson’s favorite
habit is dumping the remnants of her dinner onto the table and playing with it
like Play-Doh, claiming that she’s “making a cake” for me. When Anna is done
eating, she just starts throwing what’s left on the floor.
I try to
maintain a tidy-ish house. I never go to bed with dirty dishes in the sink. I sweep
the kitchen floor every night. I vacuum more than most people. Jon does laundry
almost every day and picks up the toys at the end of the night. But I am brave
enough to admit that my house isn’t always spotless. If you come over today,
you’ll see dust lining every bookshelf and toilets and bathtubs that could use
a good bleaching and scrubbing.
But when my
girls get older, and become mothers themselves, I don’t want them to remember their Mom as the frantic, obsessive-compulsive cleaner. I don’t want them to
remember the house they grew up in as a sterile environment. I don’t want them
to remember Mommy as the one who never let them get the toys out because it
would make too big of a mess.
I want them to remember that I always dropped what I was doing to play pretend. I want them to remember how much I LOVED the fake food concoctions they made up in their play kitchen (“Pie Soup?? Sounds delicious!”) I want them to remember how I danced and danced in the family room until I got dizzy and then danced some more.
I want them to remember how much I played.
