That Kid

Bennie has found her way to nap time, thank goodness. I am sitting with my feet in cowboy boots- crossed and propped on the counter. It feels good. Real good. The kitchen: wreck. The laundry: Mount Everest. The music: loud and Celtic. The day: excellent.

That kid gets into everything. I clean the kitchen- but she just messes it up faster than me. Before you volunteer the novel idea of locks on the cabinets- think for just a minute as to how many cabinets are in this kitchen. I count 16. At $5 a pop (for the cheap ones)- I am just too cheap to spend it. Especially since I know me, and I know Husband. We would not be the best at locking them back after dog-cussing them to get them unlocked. Besides- it would just be something else for her to figure out how to destroy.

It is cheaper and easier to buy new Pyrex. Besides, I probably own too much cookware as it is.

But, this kid. She kills me. I want to yell at her but am too busy laughing to get it out. For instance, the other day...

Climbing in the cabinets, throwing broken glass, and trying to get into the fridge- she tornadoes through the kitchen with both speed and efficiency. I was busy making a breakfast of scrambled eggs. Why should I not leave eggs out on the table for an extra five minutes? They are in a crate and have some sort of anatomical shape that makes them hard (but not impossible) to break. They were out of reach.

But, really-- What's out of reach when it comes to a tornado?

Scrambling the eggs and asking sweet Bennie to load up, I turn around expecting to see a cherub sitting in her high chair, patiently waiting for me to place her tray and fill it with fresh scrambled eggs. Her halo polished and hands folded would have been a little too much to ask.

You can expect to see a lot of things. What you will not expect to see is that almost two year old standing on the kitchen table, holding an egg in each hand as she jumped up and down singing her ABCs. 

The scrambled egg pan hits the floor with cooked eggs splattering everywhere. Bennie peers over the edge of the table and a loud, "UH OH" escapes her mouth. "Uh Oh, Mom-Mom," as she looks at me, still holding her raw eggs.

Aaaaa Beeee Seeeee Beeee EEE EEEE GEEEEEEE!

And she goes back to dancing.

That kid. God better bless her, because I want to almost every single day. A mother's love-- it runs deep.

Comments

Aunt Betty said…
I came home one afternoon to a napping husband and a 2 and 4 yr old not napping. 5 pounds of flour, 5 pounds of sugar, the mother of all sizes of baby powder......all over my den. Greeted by young ones with great joy and pride " look mommy we made it snow". Moral of story I survived, they survided, husband was in big trouble for a looking time. You will survive also.