There Are Only Slivered Moments Of Baby Left
It’s been pouring rain today, all day, a rare and welcome occurrence in this corner of the globe. Ruby fell asleep in the car on the way home from our morning adventure which culminated in a visit to her father’s shop. While there, she drank two espresso-sized cups of hot chocolate and two Fuh NEWtins, or, Fig Newtons to you and me. Before she fell asleep, we were jamming to the local jazz station which was absolutely killin’ it with selections by (among others) Ernestine Anderson, John Coltrane and Stanley Turrentine. There are few things I love as much as the combination of straight ahead jazz and an endless rainstorm and though driving in this weather—specifically in Southern California—isn’t ideal, the music made it slightly less treacherous and all the more bearable.
I was snapping my fingers to the beat and Ruby was pointing out TAXIS! and BUSES! and LIGHTS! CHRISTMAS LIGHTS! on the freeway overpasses. So I asked her if she’d like to go get a Christmas tree this weekend. And she said, “Yah, Mom. Chocolate chip tree, please!” It’s a tall order but we’ll find something to go with her menorah.
The other morning, as we were leaving for school, she noticed that the Mini was under construction in the garage and she asked me, “Mini broken, Mama?” And I told her, “Yeah, honey, the mini is broken. Mini down! Mini down!” She looked at me and said, “Mini down…OhmuhGAWD!”
The very next day, the kid was eating her waffle and watching her yoga video while I was getting ready for work in the other room. She called out to me, “Whatcha doin’, Mama?” I called back to her from the bathroom, “I’m washing my face, babe.”
“Oh.” She said, as if it made perfect sense and satisfied her inquisition.
“What are you doing, Ruby?” I asked her back.
“Watching loga, Mom! My eating BOOberries!” She said.
Here I am, almost two-and-a-half years into this parenting gig and I’m having actual conversations with my daughter. She’s, like…a real person, only super short with an attention span of equal size. It’s pretty cool. Annoying, I have to admit, when she talks back, but still cool. And hilarious, as well. She’s recently taken to shouting at me, “YOU’RE! IN! truhBUUULL!” with a huge grin on her face, one long index finger extended, her entire arm jabbing toward me in perfect unison with each syllable, as if she were in a fencing match. It’s difficult to stifle my laugh which only perpetuates the behavior.
Those times when she feels like a baby are so infrequent now and I honestly can’t say that I miss the infant stages that much. But the fact that she fell asleep in the car today was such a treat. She shut it down to a very slow, trumpeted version of John Lennon’s Imagine and I watched her in my rear view mirror, studying the relaxed curves of her face for the last mile or so to the garage. Then I lifted her long body into my arms, carried her to her room and tucked her in for a nap, planting a kiss on the bridge of her nose and removing her ladybug galoshes on the way.
I know it’s universal, but sometimes I feel like I invented Mother Love.
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