Sugar, Spice, Vinegar, Spit

She is a little girl. You know, sugar, spice, everything nice. There is that but there also is vinegar, spit and full of grit. I am okay with that. I just thought some things might be different. I had watched it unfold before in varying scenarios and but in those early days I imagined it all in a certain way. I have found it to be different than I led myself to believe, at least up until now.

You see I am the last one to leave. I am the one who drives the trail car. I am the last one in from the outside as I feel I need to make sure all who are with me are in safely where they need to be. I am the finisher of the last detail. I am the closer. I am the one who locks the doors at night then turns out the lights. Then I lay in bed until I hear everyone sleeping before I close my own eyes.

And, so, I expected some tiny, trivial thing to be added to that list of things I feel compelled to make my own. I thought for sure I would be the one who cleaned up on the leftover detail. Yes, leftovers, as in from lunch or supper. I had pretty much full reign on this for years. Jennifer does leftovers but won’t tolerate them as long as I do. Now though, I am in a struggle somedays with the eight-year-old over what is left in the refrigerator.

Often when we get home from work and school I hear that mournful lament of how the smallest one of us is hungry. Most of the time I think there is some truth in that. Sometimes I think she may be bored and replacing something to do with eating. I always though try to take her claim seriously.

When this happens, I can list a series of food items good for snacking prior to our supper an hour or so ahead of us. Grapes, tomatoes, apples, crackers, chips. Often though, she ups the ante aiming for more serious food possibilities such as oatmeal, cereal, or, what I wish to keep secret, leftovers. I know I am in trouble when she opens the refrigerator door. Although she isn’t tall enough to see every shelf, she has laser sharp eyes. I see her line of vision hone in on last night’s meatloaf or soup. Maybe she spots leftovers from the last time we ate at a restaurant. When I see her focusing on these things, I see my next day’s lunch disappearing before my very eyes.

Recently, she and I made a trip to the park. She climbed all over the cube of monkey bars. She dangled upside down. She swung to and fro. She flipped through and jumped to the ground. She took a few rides on some swings and rode down a couple of slides. She took a picture of her own shadow and proclaimed it the coolest thing she had ever seen. Meantime, it was lunchtime and I asked if she was ready to leave. I promised her lunch out somewhere when we left on our excursion.

We decided on a place that serves chicken. She knew exactly what she wanted, two small chicken sliders, French fries and a drink. I placed her order and mine. When we brought it all to our table, I began to prepare us for our meal. Before I could even get a small dish of coleslaw off my tray, she had taken it and opened it for herself, tasting it as if she had ordered it for herself. By the end of the meal, I probably had three bites of the slaw. She consumed the rest.

As we ate, she deconstructed her chicken sandwich eating it a layer at a time, bread, chicken, bread. In between, she would eat my slaw. She started on the second sandwich. Suddenly, she saw a piece of Texas toast that had come with my order. I had probably taken two bites of it at this time. She picked it up from my plate then ate everything around the crust, which she left for me. Soon enough we finished. She had about half a sandwich left, so we packed it in a box then we left for our next stop.

As part of a recent homework assignment, Hannah had to convince me and her mom of something with her writing. She chose to convince us she had behaved well enough recently to earn a trip to have ice cream. She made her case and we agreed to her terms. On this day, I was following through on her skills of persuasion and our promise to her.

We went to a local ice cream shop. She had already nixed the idea of soft-serve ice cream or ice cream in a cup. And, y'all, don't even get her started on fro-yo. She wanted ice cream and a cone. She peered into the freezers looking over the buffet of choices. She then saw the one she wanted. She did not hesitate or waver from her choice. She even insisted on two scoops. At this point, I just knew she could not eat two scoops of ice cream and a cone. After her monster lunch, I suspected I would be batting clean-up on the ice cream cone.

And, so, it began. Up front, I told the talkative little girl she needed to be steady about eating the ice cream as it would melt much faster than she thought it would. She kept talking but she also kept eating. I watched with interest as it seemed the scoops just didn’t seem to get much smaller. I wondered how the ice cream, a multi-colored swirl of blue, pink, yellow and green, tasted, confident I would soon enough discover my answer. Despite my skepticism, I never once told her she would not be able to finish the cone.

We spent the next few minutes talking about her world, her friends, what she wanted for her birthday. It wasn’t long though before I noticed the two scoops had nearly disappeared. After that huge lunch, which included a big part of my own lunch, this tiny dynamo had consumed two large scoops of ice cream.

She slowed down. The cone and a small bit of ice cream that had slid into the cone remained. I just knew I was about to get my call. And, then, there it was. She asked if I could eat some of the cone. I obliged. I took the cone thinking she might be full. She halted that line of thinking when she noted how, at her age, she has missing teeth, and some things, such as a sorta-crunchy, sorta-soggy ice cream cone are difficult for her to eat. I took the cone and took two small bites before she commandeered the cone and finished it off. Our little girl wears determination well.

And, so, this is how it is. My dreams of leftover macaroni and cheese, half-eaten cheeseburgers and drippy ice cream cones remain figments of my imagination. I am probably the better for it. My diet likely doesn’t need those things.

Sugar and spice and everything nice. Yeah, right. Vinegar and spit and full of grit. And, how.

Speak the Quiet

For the past eight years, it has rarely been quiet at our house. Yes, this coincides with a sweet, blue-eyed blonde being ever-present. It is quite the change for us.

You must understand neither Jennifer or I are very talkative. There was a time in her younger days when Jennifer’s parents were very concerned how she just would not talk. My parents never shared such a concern about me although they could probably tell you about the many times when someone came to our house and I would disappear into another room only returning when the visitor had left. For those who know us this well, they were not surprised when one of the songs we used in our wedding was Allison Krauss’s remake of the Keith Whitley song “When You Say Nothing At All.” It just seemed appropriate on several levels.

Jennifer and I tend to be the quieter, fit-into-the-scenery type of people. I am fairly certain some may even consider me unfriendly or surly just because I don’t really talk that much. Some may even think I am stuck for an answer when someone says “hello” to me. Frankly, maybe I am. I am instead someone who doesn’t believe I have to chime in on every little thing that happens. Sometimes, just keeping quiet is the wisest alternative. Still, some, on the other end of the spectrum, may know my talky side that comes out sometimes. They know how it steamrolls into a rolling, droning, never-ending stream of yawn-inducing minutiae over some subject. Not everyone can be pleased, I guess.

Meantime, some close to me have even said my facial expressions tell a story all their own better than I could even express verbally. Someone once told me I held no toleration for idiocy which must have been written across my face as I don’t remember uttering those words then. I guess I owe all those things to genetics and my feeling of constant bewilderment at the turns our society seems to blunder down daily.

All that said, pun intended, to get to how one recent day it was rather quiet in our house. Jennifer and I often talk how we haven’t had a complete conversation since Hannah learned to talk. We both find her often inserting herself into any conversation we may have ongoing. Yes, we then discuss with her how she should let someone finish what they were saying before stepping into a conversation. It has yet to completely stick though. I am sure one day it will.

Anyway, a recent day found the three of us home. The cold had embraced the outdoors. We also had work going on in another part of our house. In a sense, these factors isolated us for a day. Now, for me, that is an ideal day. The three of us together at our home spending time with one another. Oh, the things we could laugh at together. Oh, the plans we could make together. Oh, the opportunities to have every conversation interrupted by the eight-year-old.

Those conversations though mostly happened uninterrupted. Hannah was much quieter than normal. She was not feeling well. She said her throat was hurting. Since her throat hurt she decided not talking might help it get better quicker.

During the day, I watched her. She clung to a stuffed cat. Her tiny arms held it close to her in a secure embrace. She nibbled at food. She bristled at medicine. She looked like she did not feel good. She looked worried that this sore throat might never go away. I wanted to cry knowing she did not feel well. I wondered how all those parents who have children with serious medical issues deal with that gnawing, helpless, terrible feeling of watching your child struggle.

 

Later in the day, Hannah looked at me. I told her I had missed her voice that day. She gave me a curious look. Truth is, I missed hearing her ask some question every time I tried to talk. I missed her belting out a song out of the blue. I missed her stories of her and her friends.

Life is an odd thing. Many of us hold close to the familiar and safety everyday life can bring. Others like to live on the edge dancing on the line of uncertainty. Life really accommodates both constantly. It always changes. One day you realize the familiar and safe place you once knew sits at another place. You adjust and that new place becomes a new familiar, safe place.

One day, God willing, that voice will change from an eight-year-old to an older, wiser voice. It will do so seemingly as I stand still. That voice will grow up and may not be around as much as it is now. I know though I will always feel the cadence, the pitch, the rhythm of that voice. Maybe then it won’t interrupt me when I try to say something. While I may wish now for that, I know if I am able to live that moment in the future I will miss that voice stopping me while I try to flesh out my thoughts enough to verbalize them. Maybe then I’ll remember how truly blessed I was to be interrupted in such a way.