Alice has impressive dexterity. The ladies who look after her at the nursery gush all the time about how well she can color with a marker or eat with a spoon. (As soon as she got her hands on one, she knew just what to do with a pen.) Anyway, I attribute this skill to her having to negotiate the teensy pieces I cut her food into as part of my efforts to prevent choking emergencies. Win-win.
Looking strictly at what was done, I don’t think I could call the past couple of weeks particularly busy ones. But they felt harried. There was a lot that wasn’t done.
Today at four o’clock, we were at the university, watching late wedding guests run-walk to the chapel and tour guides point out the library. There had been some kind of youth choir event, and Alice laughed wildly when the kids filed out of the concert hall in their robes.
Most days by four o’clock, Alice’s barrette has fallen out, and she is rubbing her hair out of her eyes. Her patience is in shreds. She wants a snack, but not that snack. She wants to feed herself, but why not with a spatula?
Alice on the weekend – when there is no “Come here,” or “Stay there,” or “Just a sec,” or “Let’s go” – is buoyant and silly. She squeals at her own crazy games. She claps and kisses. She takes your hand and pulls you to her stroller. “You want to go for a walk?” “Da,” she nods, dancing.
It’s kind of heartbreaking.
Monday morning, when the countdown starts again at breakfast, she will rise to the occasion. She is impressively cooperative, I think, for a 1 year old. I wish she knew that I know it’s tough.