BECAUSE I MISS HER WHEN I HAVE TO SHARE HER
All day long, I make sure that she has brushed her teeth, combed her hair, washed her hands, eaten a bite or two of something Not-Nugget, and thrown away her banana peels. I end computer time. I turn off the TV. I send her out to play in the fresh air, and call her back in when she might be cold, which is judged by my own body temperature. I remind her that I love her the most, even more than Grandma loves her, no matter what Grandma says. I make her swallow her medicine and put on shoes and wipe her butt and her nose, not in that order or even sequentially. In doing all of these things and so many more, I must irritate the hell out of her, though she doesn’t rebel, only sighs patiently at my mommy-prattling.
Still, she reminds me to find Ted, or finds him for me, before bed.
Still, she wants to talk about her day, and asks me about mine.
Thank you, small daughter, for loving me back.