She woke up at 5.45 this morning.
It is a Saturday and we would really like a sleep-in. Like really really appreciate one. While she plays on the bed, kicking and thrashing us in turn, taking breast-feeding breaks every now and then, we try to sleep as best as we can. I have one eye open. Occasionally, I catch her doing something silly.
“Get away from there! You will fall down”, I yell, as I drag her away from the edge of the bed and go back to trying to catch some sleep.
As sleep-ins go, it was not too bad. Finally, at 7AM, we give up and the three of us make our way to the lounge. Dada proceeded to make tea and I got the roller out to stretch my aching IT band. She ran to wake up her dolls. She came around when she heard me screaming. For some reason, she decided that I wasn’t really in pain but the was cry part of the “essercise“. She sat on the roller, bent over and loudly moaned, “Aaaaah! Aaaah!”
I rolled on the floor clutching my stomach and laughed so hard, the husband came running to check on us. She looked at me with a confused expression on her face. If I could hear her thoughts, as she walked away, I bet I’d have heard:
“Mama is nuts. I’d better go back and tend to my dolls”
A few moments earlier, she had grabbed my hand and led me to her little pink fold-out couch with circus prints.
“Lie down! Night night”
Apparently, she thought I needed more sleep. Who would complain about a few extra minutes of shut-eye? So, I lay down and closed my eyes. Little did I realise that the poor midget wanted to lie down with me. When I opened my eyes, she had squeezed in next to me, and was watching me.
“Awww. Hi baby! Did you also want to lie down?”
She looked at me strangely, stood up and called out,
“Teddy, lie down!” and went to get her other dolls out of the toy box.
Clearly, that extra sleep didn’t help fix me up because I was still acting crazy during the exercise session.
Given my behaviour this morning, it is little wonder that she wouldn’t trust me with dressing her up. “Dada“, she said, walking over to him when I tried to put a frock over her head. She stood quietly while he tossed the dress over her head and pulled it down. Then, she bent her arms backwards, to help him zip her up. Not once has she done that with me. She must really think I’m a lost cause.
I can totally see her picking out my clothes and doing my hair, with frustration, as she grows up and discovers that I have no fashion sense. I wonder if she will look back and be embarrassed about the days when she had no say in her wardrobe. Time will tell.