That was BEFORE I "made" dinner. Essentially, I took a headless chicken body ripped back the skin (don't want to hear that sound too much in my life) and shoved oranges and brown sugar underneath it. I then broke it's legs (accidentally-and again, another sound I don't want to hear) while trying to figure out which way is "up" for cooking. This is nothing compared to the day I stuck a pop can in the, um, cavity of a headless chicken and had it sitting on it in my oven.
Blech. Is it really worth the money saved?
Anyway, two days ago, I was pretty sick. I actually was very nauseous, and was lying on the bathroom floor with a pillow when Maizie Monster comes in. "Momma, are you sick?"
"Yes, I'm gonna throw up." (In 3-year-old world, this is similar to saying, I'm going to get a leg amputated or hold my cheek to a hot oven for 2 minutes).
Maizie cautiously comes close to me, clumsily strokes my hair back out of my face, and says..."Oh pretty one..."
Then, "Poor momma. I can hold you."
She proceeds to sit on my lap and "hold me" very tightly, all the while stroking my hair.
"You want me read you a story?"
"Sure"
"You stay RIGHT there, momma" (like I'm going anywhere).
She darts down the hall like only small children can, those little feet pounding on our wood floor. Boom boom boom boom.
And back. Boom boom boom boom.
She's got a counting board book, and she then sits on the closed toilet all authoritatively (like her Sunday school teacher, I'm guessing).
One Flower.
Two buckles.
Three Ducks.
I just wished I could have captured it forever. Right there, Maizie at her best. Taken all that was sweet and innocent and unabashed and compassionate about the whole situation and squished it into her whole life.
That's my prayer for her, I suppose. Lord, keep that about my three year old. Clean out the stubbornness and selfishness and grumpiness and anger, but leave that please.
