I walked into the kitchen this morning to start breakfast and found Miss G standing on the counter, rummaging in cabinets.
“I’m sick, “ she explained while hopping back down, victorious can of chicken noodle soup in hand. I sigh.
“Think you might let your mother take care of you?” I ask. She glares and hands me the soup. I feel her forehead (definite fever), hand her some kleenex (Okay, we don’t have kleenex-- it was a roll of toilet paper) and tell her to go sit down.
With some prodding and bickering, some of us showing grouchy resistance and some of us yelling a little, I get her tucked onto the family room couch. She allows me to kiss her forehead and snuggle her a little before wriggling me off her and refolding the blankets properly (I never do it right).
I ask if she wants some peppermint tea.
“Oooh-- yeah!” she says, and hops back up.
“I WILL MAKE IT. For the love of god, child, please let me take care of you when you’re sick. It’s my job. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.”
She tucks back in, looking both chagrined and rebellious.
It’s not that I’m raising her so much as I’m hanging onto the caboose of the Miss G train-- white-kuckled, legs flying out behind me. And not because I have a timid violet personality that just bows to her whims; she is just so much more present than anyone I’ve ever encountered. Except her dad. It’s this crazy, charismatic larger-than-life thing. The whole family has it-- him, his cousins, his uncle... they’re all just freakin’ exhausting.
I bring her tea, and sit with her on the couch while she evaluates the milk/sugar ratio. She tests it, and then pats my hand.
“You make it perfect, Mama. It’s just right.”
“Great. Do you need anything else? That I can get you, that you don’t need to get up and get yourself because I am here to do it for you?”
“No, this is just right.”
“Okay, kid.”
I give her a kiss and head off to my shower. Sometimes I wonder if people who are raising Type B children are this worn out all the time. I’m ready for a nap and it’s only 7:15.
“Mama?”
“Yes, darling girl?”
“I love you. You’re the best mom ever.”
“Thanks kiddo. I work really hard at it. And I love you too.”
“I’m sick, “ she explained while hopping back down, victorious can of chicken noodle soup in hand. I sigh.
“Think you might let your mother take care of you?” I ask. She glares and hands me the soup. I feel her forehead (definite fever), hand her some kleenex (Okay, we don’t have kleenex-- it was a roll of toilet paper) and tell her to go sit down.
With some prodding and bickering, some of us showing grouchy resistance and some of us yelling a little, I get her tucked onto the family room couch. She allows me to kiss her forehead and snuggle her a little before wriggling me off her and refolding the blankets properly (I never do it right).
I ask if she wants some peppermint tea.
“Oooh-- yeah!” she says, and hops back up.
“I WILL MAKE IT. For the love of god, child, please let me take care of you when you’re sick. It’s my job. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.”
She tucks back in, looking both chagrined and rebellious.
It’s not that I’m raising her so much as I’m hanging onto the caboose of the Miss G train-- white-kuckled, legs flying out behind me. And not because I have a timid violet personality that just bows to her whims; she is just so much more present than anyone I’ve ever encountered. Except her dad. It’s this crazy, charismatic larger-than-life thing. The whole family has it-- him, his cousins, his uncle... they’re all just freakin’ exhausting.
I bring her tea, and sit with her on the couch while she evaluates the milk/sugar ratio. She tests it, and then pats my hand.
“You make it perfect, Mama. It’s just right.”
“Great. Do you need anything else? That I can get you, that you don’t need to get up and get yourself because I am here to do it for you?”
“No, this is just right.”
“Okay, kid.”
I give her a kiss and head off to my shower. Sometimes I wonder if people who are raising Type B children are this worn out all the time. I’m ready for a nap and it’s only 7:15.
“Mama?”
“Yes, darling girl?”
“I love you. You’re the best mom ever.”
“Thanks kiddo. I work really hard at it. And I love you too.”
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