“I love you, Mommy!” she said in her sweet sweet voice as I snuggled next to her after agreeing to read ONE more book. Our night time routine has somehow turned into a proper shit-show night after night, so agreeing to read ONE more book ultimately means five or six more, a few songs, a couple made up stories, and a good solid cry from her. Sometimes from me. But this isn’t really about me anymore, is it?
I love you too, sweet darling! I replied while reaching over to pick up one of her new Fancy Nancy books. And right as I thought about sighing away the exhaustion and jealousy from knowing that my husband was in our bed reading a book of his own choosing, she reached up and brushed the hair away from my eyes. Slightly startled, I turned to face her. She wiggled a little to face me while moving her hand down to my cheek and softly whispered, “Wanna get married, Mama?”
Do I want to marry YOU, Eloise?
“Shoooora!” (Sure!) she replied.
Of course I do! I accepted.
She smiled proudly and squeezed my cheek only letting go to reach for my hand. She slyly moved my hand to open the book and said, “Read book, ok Mommy?”
And that was that.
The thing is, is that our day had been pretty ordinary. We ate toast in bed. She drank milk and I chugged two cups of coffee. She watched two episodes of “Max and Woooby” while I nursed Phoebe and flipped through my latest House Beautiful magazine. Then we had our usual battle of the fittest to get ourselves dressed in non-elastic clothes for me and something other than her Thomas the Engine pajama top and ballerina tutu. And while I, of course, ended up losing my particular battle-of-the-bulge yesterday, I did win against her. And in the end, while she still wore pajamas (albeit clean ones!), I did get her to wear some socks AND a jacket. She also wore her hat on the way out to our car. I’ll take any victory great or small. Ok?
We did a typical Target run to buy essentials. Socks to replace the 1 million single socks that have been cremated into dryer lent over the last 4 months, deodorant, a large jar of peanut butter, paper towels, stickers, this really cute set of pajamas, glitter glue, markers, hair clips…you know…the proverbial how-did-it-add-up-to-so-much?-Target-you-slay-me run. I bought her a little shortbread cookie at Starbucks that kept her occupied for a good 3 minutes. I got an espresso. We walked to the park down the street. She threw a fit when we had to leave. I pulled my back out because I’m getting old and decrepit. We played dress-up and drew some pictures. She enjoyed her pasta dinner and whined for more cinnamon on her apple sauce. She threw her cup of milk on the floor. I patiently explained to her that “We don’t throw milk off of the table because it makes a mess!” She laughed. She grabbed a butcher knife from the dishwasher and ran around the island singing, “Argggh! I’m a pirate!” I yelled at her. She laughed. She tried to examine her sister’s eyes with her doctor kit while exclaiming, “Looks great!” Her sister cried. I patiently explained that that could hurt her sister. She laughed.
I’m certain that I said the words “Shit” and “Damn” more than a few times at some point in her ear-shot. I probably said things worse than that. I’m certain I did. She repeated, “Kiss my hand, Mommy! I’m a princess!” 26 times. It would have been 27, but I decided to intervene and kiss her hand. She asked me “Why?” 34 times. I counted. She stole the towel from my hands when I was trying to lift her from the tub, and then she laid down and tucked herself in while resting her head on a foam letter and a rubber ducky. I turned out the bathroom lights, told her “Nigh Nigh!” and whispered, “That was easy!” to my husband as I held up the white flag. He hands me the baby and wrangles her out of the tub as she runs freely down the hall with her towel as a cape. “SUUUUUUPER ELOISE TO THE RESCUE!!!” she yells. I laugh at how cute her little butt looks running from room to room, watching in amazement at how long her legs are.
My husband and I share a moment in the hall when we look down at our baby in my arms and watch our big girl run free and shake our heads in disbelief. And somehow after our day full of ordinary moments, she begs for me to read to her tonight instead of him. And I take her up on it as he heads to our room with the baby to read a few more pages of the book that he just can’t quite finish.
You see, I’ve been waiting for that moment. That little teeny tiny fleeting moment when she looked in my eyes and grabbed my cheek. I knew in that moment that it was working. Everything I had done in the past 28 months was going noticed. She loved me…at least until the teenage years. And she wanted to marry me…at least until she’s old enough to understand what marrying me would do to our family tree. I mean, it’s weird, right? But God, I had to accept her engagement. Because if she promised to love me and cherish me for as long as we both shall live, I would be the happiest and most blushing Bridemom.
