My child. The light of my eyes. The joy of my life. The bane of my weekday mornings. This little bundle of love drives me right to the edge of insanity, and then gets excited about identifying the wading birds that wander into our neighborhood, and I feel bad for getting upset with her.
This morning Hannah took issue with the Beatles song I was singing. Can't remember which one it was by now, but how bad could it be, really? What she hates is when I sing in a silly voice. Or an opera voice. Or with any voice some mornings. But after I'd sung the same 3 half-lines of this song 27 times, I was getting bored with it, so just sort of mutated into Yoda or some other voice. The next thing I know, Hannah goes into her room, closes the door rather pointedly, and launches into some monologue about how terrible of a person I am, and possibly something about running away to join the circus. I think she could tell when I was standing outside her room to eavesdrop, because she started getting kind of ambiguous about it.
I mean, maybe. It's hard to decide. I might. But I might not.
She might have been planning to murder me in my sleep, too. I have got to remember to stand so she can't see my feet under the door when I eavesdrop.
It got worse from there, and the biggest challenge for me is to maintain the same tone of voice while instructing her that she must finish getting ready, because she's walking to school, whether it makes her late or not. She needs that walk to school. It's where she turns back into Dr Jekyl. She talks about the shape and color of the cactus flowers down the street, wants to know why cacti have flowers, and how they bloom. She wants to make sure the ducks know when the traffic is too heavy to waddle into the road. She wants to speculate on where the pigeon poop may fall as they sit on the power lines overhead.
By the time we got to school, she was calm, loving, and looking forward to her day. Maybe I should start sending her on a 10 minute walk as soon as she wakes up in the mornings.