I don’t usually have cause to write about Warrior Queen exclusively these days. I chew on that often, and I don’t have a good answer. Usually there is something noteworthy about both kids for each post, or the focus on Little Man because he is older with a smattering of atypical development periodically worth mentioning.
Little Man is in his four-year-old preschool program three mornings a week. Warrior Queen is enrolled two, so we spend some moments together as a twosome. I mention it often, but it merits repeating. She’s such a fierce, feisty sprite of a girl…so much character and personality.
It makes her angry, but I can’t help myself. In the car she will start to nod off, and I’ll ask her repeatedly if she’s tired.
“I’M NOT TIRED!”
“Are you sure? You seem tired.”
“NO! I’m not tired anymore!”
“Are you just grumpy?”
“I’M NOT GRUMPY!”
“Are you sure?”
I could do that to her all day, which probably makes me a terrible person, but I can’t help myself. A side benefit is that the exchange keeps her awake when we are dangerously close to quiet time and moments from pulling into the garage. Warrior Queen seems to only scuttle to oblivion a mile from home no matter how long the journey, and those few minutes of sleep will make her a total asshole who will forgo her nap altogether. Some time ago she successfully climbed out of her crib. I’d deluded myself that such a sleeping arrangement would persist until high school, but, alas, I heard a ruckus above me, and proceeded to yell at Little Man who was actually in his room, staggering out confused. Warrior Queen was on the floor prone with her blankie over her head. She looked up at me and grinned. Thus began the first sleep in a toddler bed. The transition was much better than I feared…Isn’t that always the way? A bit more coordination, but sleep manages to happen. I’m finally well, which means exercise can happen too.
Warrior Queen has all kinds of things to say, and I love her imagination. Much of the time she tells me stories, “There’s a monster coming!” She isn’t scared; it’s just a story. She’s only two-and-a-half, so the plot leaves much to be desired, but I can see the gears turning. One day the stories will be something to behold!
Another favorite of which I don’t understand the origins. I’ll tug a shirt over her head, and as soon as her face escapes the confines of the material, she’ll squeak, “I’m a pickle!” Subsequently, the remaining portions of her head will push through the opening.
My spirited girl is always the assertive one; I admire that about her. She was walking throughout the kitchen and family room wielding a bowl of cereal with milk despite my less than gentle urging to eat at the table. Predictably she has an accident with the contents of said bowl. Probably also predictably is that the milk spilled over our heat vent…when the heat kicked on for good measure. I’m a terrible housekeeper, so I would assume that the smell of baby vomit might not be as jarring as a normal person would expect. “It will dissipate,” has become a kind of life motto for me these days. My husband cleans the situation as best he could. Warrior Queen with a thinly replenished supply continues to eat. My husband and I look down at her waiting for another accident as we rehash the previous moment’s events. As we mostly ignored her, mindlessly chatting to each other, she shifts her attention away from the precariously tipped bowl to look at us and says, “I’m still mad about it.”
I discussed the playgroup we’ve been attending at a local library. There is some kind of director who works there. I don’t know what he does or his name, but Warrior Queen is captivated by his existence. He’s an enormous fellow, and my daughter refers to him as a giant. She doesn’t want to meet him, but every time we pass the main desk, Warrior Queen asks, “Where did the giant go?” She will hover in her spot at the foot of the stairs waiting to see if he will appear. And, it takes a good deal of convincing to move her onward when his office is dark and empty. Stomping our ascend she continues to ask me the same questions about his whereabouts that I can’t answer. I’m usually left with the distinct impression that she is unsatisfied with my responses, and doesn’t completely believe me. Sometimes she stops midway looking at me as though his presence will spontaneously generate from my rather large bag like some kind of weird library programming magic trick. She gives every inclination to want to approach him for some kind of conversation like she would with most people. But, when a desk librarian asked if she wanted to meet him, my fierce girl decisively said, “No,” immediately leading the way out the door and to the car.