The other day my six year old daughter and I made a pit stop at the public restroom in our grocery. As I was waiting for her to do her thing, I hear her shout from behind her stall door,
“BOMBS AWAY!” and then a God-awful grunt.
I’m surprised the woman in the stall next to her didn’t fall off her toilet laughing.
TRUE STORY: Sometimes you need a war-cry to get the job done.
SweetZ loves to do my hair. She brushes, blow dries, and fluffs it at least twice a day. Usually more. It’s the best. I love her intense look of concentration while she’s doing her thing – play is serious business around here.
Today SweetZ is decked out in a pink sparkly tutu, loaded down with bracelets and necklaces, and has more barrettes in her hair than I would have thought possible. She is a Walking Talking Explosion of Girly-ness.
She says to me, “Mom, can we play? I have lipstick. Let’s brush our teeth and put on lipstick.”
I say, “I’d love to sweetie, but I need to work a little, first.”
“But mom,” she says, twisting a strand of my hair in her chubby little fingers. I notice the dirt under her nails and smile. She likes digging in the dirt almost as much as she loves doing my hair and playing ballerina. “But mom, I can smell your breath.”
“You can?”
“Yeah. It smells like coffee. And stinky cheese.”
“Stinky cheese!”
“Yeah.”
I grin at her. “Okay. Let’s go brush our teeth, but then I need to work until Alice wakes up.”
“Let’s brush our teeth and put on lipstick. You’ll work better with lipstick on.”
My grin widens. There might be some wisdom there. “Alright. Toothbrushes and lipstick. Let’s do it.”
“And then I will fluff your hair while you fluff your book.” She grabs her Tinkerbell brush, holding it out in front of her like Arthur wielding Excalibur. How on earth can I say no to that?
I can’t.
“Sounds good to me.”
oOo
Shrilugh’s sequel, The Darkening, is coming along. I’m not ready to give y’all a release date just yet, but I wanted you to know that I’m making progress. If you’re interested in some of the things I’m chewing on while I’m writing, check out this Pinterest board.
If you’ve read Shrilugh and loved it, I’d love it if you left a review over at Amazon, iTunes, Smashwords, or Goodreads. Actually, if you’ve read anything recently and loved it, I’m sure the author would appreciate a glowing review – not only for the positive affirmation, but because your good reviews help encourage others to buy our work. *grins*
And if you haven’t read Shrilugh yet, do! It’s only $2.99 (for an eBook) on Amazon, iTunes, and Smashwords.
I was going through my old Facebook photo albums the other day. It’s wild to see how our family has grown and changed since the first day I signed up for social media all those years ago.
During my stroll down memory lane I came across a series of photographs. Of my daughter. From over a year ago. Refusing to swallow a bite of food.
As I was looking at my two-year-old little SweetZ obstinately holding food in her mouth for more than an hour, I was asking myself, “Where does she get it from?” – that stubborn refusal to do the thing that she really doesn’t want to do.
Then a childhood memory of my own came flooding into my thoughts – a very specific trip to the dentist. I’d heard my parents whispering in the front seat of the car during the trip there about what we were going to have done. They didn’t know I was listening, but I was. Even though I was too young to fully understand everything they were saying, I was, however, plenty old enough to understand these words:
“…stitches…”
“…shots…”
“…needles…”
I made up my mind very quickly – lonnnnnng before we reached the dentist’s office. No way in hell was I going to open my mouth. That dentist could call frogs from the waters and fire from the heavens, and nothing – ABSOLUTELY NOTHING – was going to make me open my mouth. Not if doing so meant that there would be needles, shots, and stitches.
I remember sitting in the dentist’s chair (which to my little, distrustful eyes, seemed like some kind of mutant-mechanical praying mantis waiting to eat me, slowly and painfully), looking up at the posters they had tacked up on the ceiling. A kitten sitting in a wagon. A pretty rainbow scene. That classic shot of the two little boys wearing overalls that reads, “So, how long have you been farming?” I distrusted those posters. They reminded me of clowns. And I was LIGHTYEARS ahead of Stephen King when it came to the ugly truth behind clowns. I had my own preconceived notions regarding those devilish bastards before IT was published…and he was 39 when that went to print. I was a mere sprite when I realized the true evil behind clowns. But that’s a story for another post, another day.
Anyway…
I was staring up at those posters, all alone in the examination room, contemplating my chances of success if I were to bolt, when the dentist came in.
He said hello.
I stared at him.
His nurse said hello.
I ignored her and stared at him.
He sat on his chair and pulled on his mask. His eyes crinkled behind his glasses. Maybe he was trying to smile at me. I thought he was glaring.
He asked me to open my mouth.
I stared at him.
He repeated himself.
I stared at him and gave my head a tiny shake. No.
He looked at the nurse and gave her a slight nod. She moved a step closer to the chair.
My tiny head shake grew into something a little bigger.
I don’t remember much past this point. It’s all kind of a blur. There was a commotion, some loud yelling, and hands holding my shoulders down while someone else tried to pry my mouth open.
I still have bad dreams. I still loathe dentists.
I don’t know if they were able to do what we’d come for them to do – I honestly don’t remember. All I remember was clinging to the notion that if I were to survive that visit, I MUST NOT OPEN MY MOUTH.
So, as I was looking through our family photographs of my daughter displaying her stubbornness, I realized,
Oh.
She gets it from me.
And I smiled. Because even though she’ll have to learn to develop the kind of self-control that doesn’t allow her to just give into her stubbornness willy-nilly, seeing myself reflected in her is a pretty darn cool thing.
Now, check out SweetZ in her 1 hr, 10 minute refusal to swallow her food.
Fifteen minutes into her refusal to swallow a bite. She’s still trying to smile at me as if to say, “Look, lady. I could do this all night long.”
Twenty minutes in. It’s becoming less and less fun.
Forty-five minutes into the battle of the wills. All eye contact has been cut off. She had no idea at this point just how stubborn her mama could be. And clearly, I had no idea just how stubborn my daughter could be.
A full hour into it. An HOUR, people.
And there it is. Seventy minutes later, the will broke. The food was swallowed. And there was much, much cuddling. We never had an issue with her swallowing her food again.
Myndi Shafer 