This. About. Killed me.
It started with us trying to define exactly what Sweet might entail. Having spent a semi-memorable decade with Molly Ringwald, high bangs, and Miami Vice, I was leaning more toward the totally awesome in a tubular kind of way and she was more of the pink, sparkly, shiny princess sugar drops thing.
"Why does it have to be something to eat?" I asked her.
"Because. That's what's sweet."
Oh. Well alright then.
I showed her a really wonderful image that I got of her running through the beach grass with her kite. It was vintage and simple and lovely.
She took one look at it and said, "No, that's not sweet. I can't eat that."
She keeps me honest. You have to love that.
(you do have to love that, right?)
"I want to try doing something with S'mores," I told her after school the other day.
I was envisioning something dripping and sticky and chocolate clouds of wonderful. She came out in her turquoise, chartreuse and purple, one-shoulder, salsa summer dress
(thank you, grandma)
and announced that she was ready to pose for the picture.
"Uhhhh....what are you wearing?"
"My dress."
"No. That's not going to work. Just put on what you wore to school."
"I'm not changing. I want. To. Wear. This."
Seriously?
"Well, you can't wear that in my picture."
"MOM!"
"Fine. I'll just ask your brother to pose for it. He'll be fine."
Ugh!!!! You're making me crazy!!!! I want to wear my dress."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Go change."
"I'm. Not. Changing."
I was fairly certain I knew how to break this little spirit and move on already.
"If you don't change, there's no S'more for you,"
and then I crossed my arms and raised one eyebrow. Take that, punk.
"Fine. I'll just have cheese crackers, then," and she climbed up on the counter in her electric green salsa dress and grabbed the cracker jar out of the cabinet. She opened the jar, pulled out a cracker, turned to me and popped it in her mouth. Then she said, "Bite me."
No. That's a lie.
What I know she meant to say was "Take your picture and shove it, Mamasita. If you want me, these are my terms. Salsa dress or nothing."
At which point I had to sit down and put my head between my knees, and for the briefest of moments was certain I could hear my mother cackling, "That's what you get!" which I've never understood because I don't have any recollection of being that kind of odious and unpleasant.
I turned on my heel, and walked
(stomped)
(stormed)
calmly
(seethingly)
into her room
(I am the parent. I am the parent. I am the parent.)
and pulled out one of my favorite dresses that she owns. It's so cute and rustic and for the last three closet clean-outs I've categorically refused to even think about getting rid of it. It's more of a tunic now than a dress, so I grabbed some pink legging shorts to put on under it.
By some twist of magic unicorn fluff, we were finally able to agree that this would be an acceptable outfit,
(Bridgit Mendler CD in the car for the next five rides)
and she finally started in on the S'more. I had this idea in my head that the chocolate and marshmallow would combine into this wonderful, oozy, ooey mess that would drip from her face to her hands to the plate and be the embodiment of sweet and art.
I pointed the camera at her and waited.
She bit into the graham crackers and stopped mid-chomp, looking at me.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'nn wuting hor you do dake da hicture."
"Well, I'm waiting for you to take the bite."
She put it down and licked her fingers.
"Take the picture and I'll take a bite."
My point, gentle friends, is that this picture was nearly the end of me. The. End.
The End.
No comments:
Post a Comment