Too Scawwy

05.25.06

            “Cautious” was a word that would not have applied to my child before she had words of her own.  She’s was a full-speed, run-with-scissors, climb up and jump off anything kind of kid.  And then she learned to talk.

            The first time I noticed language feeding into common sense was at the new West Duluth McDonald’s playland, the one with the stairs inside the tree.  She wouldn’t climb up there to go across the “skywalk” and come down the slide.  I asked, “Why don’t you want to go up there?”

            “Too high,” she said, and the simplicity of that explanation caught me off guard.  Since when had anything been “too high” for my little daredevil?  And where on earth did she learn the concept of “too high” anyway?

            I’m betting she learned it from her Daddy. 

            From day one he’s questioned my ability to keep this kid alive.  “Don’t drop the baby,” he would counsel, and then laugh like it was a joke, only it really wasn’t.  We flew to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Florida when Little Miss was eighteen months old to visit Papa and Nana, and Daddy said, (and more than once, I might add) “Don’t drown the baby,”  As if doing so was somehow part of my evil master plan.

            If I were to take a wild guess I’d think his concern must stem back to my whole issue with cooking.  Cooking’s not really my thing.  I’d start making a nice meal, then get caught up in something else like reading, email, whatever… and wouldn’t notice when things in the kitchen started to go bad.

            My brain requires constant stimulation.  It’s impossible for me to just sit do nothing for even 5 minutes while I wait for… something to cook, the kid to get tired of playing at the playground, the dentist to call me in for my turn, the stop light to turn green.  I have to read, write, daydream, talk on the phone or I just can’t bear it.

            In Florida at eighteen months old my Little Miss loved the swimming pool.  Fearless.  In fact we didn’t spent a whole lot of time at the pool that trip because what she loved most about the pool was jumping off the side with total unconcern about being caught.  It became her goal to run around the pool to where I wasn’t waiting for her and leap in.  And me with the words, “Don’t drown the baby” swimming in my head.  It gave me stress.

            Now she’s 2 and a half yearsold, (“I’m going to be 3 on my next birthday, Mom,”) and her mastery of language is phenomenal.  As well as her concept of “too high,” “too deep,” and “too scawwy.”

            We were invited to swim at Grandpa’s hotel last night.  I thought Little Miss would love it because she has this little obsession with water that includes the bathroom sink, the garden hose, the beach, and puddles.  I swear she’s wet more than she’s dry these days, and it has nothing to do with potty training. 

            I can’t tell you how annoyed I was when she hated the swimming pool.  Well, okay, maybe I can.  Here’s me:  I worked all day after only 4 hours of sleep, ate way too much at Timberlodge, and now I am cold and wet in a swimming pool and my child refuses to come into the water.

            I did, in fact, get her into the pool, but that whole process was the quintessential description of “dragging someone kicking and screaming.”  Obviously a phrase developed by parents of a stubborn (whoops, I mean “strong-willed”) 3 year old.  She was screaming, “No!  Put me out!  Too scawwy!” 

            I’m holding her in her swimsuit with the built-in inner-tube assuring her that it’s okay, Mommy will keep her safe.

            “No!” She screams, her bigangry voice resounding throughout the pool area, “Daddy keeps me safe!  I want to get out!”

            Hmph.  Fine.  I lift her to the side of the pool where she stands dripping and glaring down at me.  “You in biiiig trouble, dude.”

            “Why am I in big trouble?” 

            “It’s too scawwy for me.  You don’t keep me safe.”

            Whatever.  I dive under the water and swim the length of the pool, which tickles her to no end.  For the next hour she’s a little dictator, pacing the side of the pool, gesturing imperiously, and saying, “Swim under water, Mom, like my fishes.”

            I was exhausted when we got home.  The closest I got to getting her in the water again was to sit on the pool edge to make big splashes with her feet.  And she acted wary and suspicious of me the whole time, afraid I was going to pull her in against her will.

            As I cuddled her in her bed (which for some reason lately is actually the floor) I said, “Well, maybe next time you’ll go in the pool more.”

            “Yes,” she agreed,“Daddy come and keep me safe.”

            Thanks a lot.

            Sometimes Mom does all the work.  But Daddy’s always the hero.

 

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