Rider on the Storm

The other day we got home from school and the children went through their motions: shoes off and tucked near the desk in the bedroom, sweaters on the chair, potty, wash hands.

This little routine is the ONE THING I have managed to ingrain in them (don’t ask me how; the brushing of teeth twice a day still seems to take them by surprise, yes, twice a day) and it affords me ten minutes to turn on the kitchen light, hang the car key, and assemble the snack (still peanuts and club sodas all around, always making me feel as if my house were some kind of hotel bar for the under-18 set).

LittleMan and Babygirl assumed their positions on the two big chairs in the livingroom, and waited for me to turn on the TV.  LittleMan requested the new episode of WildKratts, and I hit play and went to the kitchen to empty the dishwasher and prep dinner.  28 minutes and counting.

Except.

Babygirl appeared at my knee, arms crossed over her chest and an injured look on her face.
“What it is, Babygirl?” I asked, kneeling down.
“LittleMan always gets to pick the show,” she said, harumphing her little arms for effect and pouting out her lower lip.

I stared at her.  She’s right.  She’s absolutely right.

Until this moment, in the kitchen at 4:37pm on a Wednesday, I honestly believed she didn’t really care, she was just along for the ride, still just the baby in the back seat, all strapped in and snug and happy to be included.

But she’s not.  She is not a baby at all, is she?  She is such a person, such a full-fledged human, out of diapers and off the bottle, and only in the late late hours or when she is sick does she snuggle heavy against me the way she once did.  (And when she’s sick and suffering like that, even though I want with every worried fiber for her to be healthy again, a teeny tiny part of me gives myself permission to enjoy the feeling of her in my arms, permission to remember and re-live.)

It’s funny to realize that the kids have officially lapped me: Babygirl now is as old as LittleMan was when she was born.  I think back to how much maturity I ascribed to poor LittleMan back then, how desperately I wanted (needed) him to display independence and self-control, largely because I was so overwhelmed at suddenly being outnumbered by my children.  No wonder he’s such a little stressball.  Meanwhile Babygirl is allowed — encouraged! — to just keeping on being, well, Babygirl.  Not LittleGirl or LittleWoman, no way not yet.  I am not ready.

But Babygirl might be getting ready.  Daredevil, flirt, wearer of tutus and (gasp!) nail polish.  Brandisher of lassos and fluent speaker of cowgirl-slang: “Allllll right, partners!  Here’s the plan!  We’re going to use the potty and wash our hands because I’m the biggest girl in the Wild West!  Yeeeeee haw!”  A little bit princess but in no way a damsel in distress: Babygirl is the resident go-getter, policewoman, and stubborn tantrum thrower.  It’ll be her way or to the stagecoach with you.