Frances Friday: Thick Skin Edition

Frances, bless her innocent heart, believes that the internet exists so she can play Elmo games. And that's fine. In small, i.e. thirty-second, doses. What I want to know is, why does she have to stick her hands in her mouth and get her fingers all slimy before she starts bashing the keys on my precious laptop?

Anyone?

I am also pleased to report that Frances's eyes are still blue, and very big; and her opinion of me appears to be undiminished. When I got home on Wednesday after a day of site inspections, we spent a few minutes admiring her toes (her leaning forward on the couch, me leaning toward her, both of us giving her toes the proper degree of attention, and the toes themselves wriggling away in her little white socks), then had a nice snuggle on the black chair. "I missed you today, Mummy," she said.

The bitterness of others has not darkened her sweetness. Her smile is still atomic. When she wraps her tiny, deliciously edible fingers around her big-girl Winnie the Pooh cup for a sip of orange juice that is then spilled to discolour her t-shirt, I still lose myself in admiring them, so preposterously sized, and yet so perfectly functional and competent. I can still stare happily while she eats, all solemnity and business; the sight of her filling her tummy with food still fills me with a sense of rightness in the world. For no reason at all that I can fathom.

Her laugh is still infectious, and no matter what she's done, when the giggle gets going the game is up--I try, but I can't help it, I laugh too. I laugh, then she laughs harder, then I laugh harder, and the next thing you know, she's on my lap and my head is bent over her shoulder and we are both shaking and choking from laughing so hard. Daddy is going to have to be the disciplinarian. I'm hopeless.

She still doesn't like to finish a puzzle, preferring to put it half together and then abandon it for something else.

She still takes an hour to fall asleep at night, babbling and laughing and talking to herself, to drift off north of 9:30.

She still asks, when I've finished "Where Is Boots?" for the third time in a row, "Can you read it one last time again, Mummy?" When I say no, she still says, "yes," slyly, with a smile.

When I tell her I love her, she still says, "Awww, that's so sweet! I love you too." She still wants the Mummy Carrot to hide so the Baby Carrot can find her. She still tells Max that his overalls are disgusting, and once they've bought new ones, there will be no money left.

She still fits on me perfectly, her head on my shoulders, her feet at my hips, her weight resting on my right arm. I still carry her up and down the stairs, because it's faster, and because I like to. She still looks at me and waves her arms like little whips when she asks, "Can I hold you Mummy?"

She is my life.

And when I close my eyes, there she is, day or night. Big blue eyes, tiny fingers, atomic smile and all, looking at me with the total love she still has for me at this age. Whether she is with me or not, I can see the person she believes me to be in her eyes. I can see everything that is good and pure about human potential; I can see how little age or education or size are correlated with worth. I can see both how true the next statement must be, and how unjust the saying is.

I can be the bigger person. I can let it go.

~~~~~

And in that spirit, a conversation from this morning:

Andrea tiptoes into the kitchen, bends over Frances's booster seat, and leans in to her ear. "Boo."

"Mummy!" Frances leans her cheek against mine and, when I wrap my arms around her for a hug, wraps her own arms around mine.

"What a nice hug," I say, and move to the front of her chair.

"Mummy, I really like your teal shirt. It matches your pants!" Frances fingers the hem.

"Thank you," I say, even though it doesn't, because the shirt is teal and the pants are blue jeans. But she's two, what do you want?

~~~~~

Yesterday, I got home before 4 and spent an hour and a half worrying about Erik and Frances, who are normally home by 4:30. At 5:20, the phone rang:

"Hi. We're on our way home."

"Hi, Erik. Did your course run late?"

"No. Somebody broke her glasses. We're just leaving the eyeglass store now."

"Oh no! What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

In the background, I dimly hear Frances say, "I want to talk to Mummy." The phone is passed to her: "Hi, Mummy."

"Hi, Frances. How are you?"

"I broke my glasses."

"So I heard."

Posted by Andrea at September 22, 2006 7:17 AM under Frances Friday

EMAIL this entry

(comments fields are below this section)