Tutu

If you read yesterday, you saw that I had a lot going on.  I spent a good part of the day bleeding, I set up two interviews and had my first interview for my new "job."  (Hard to call it a job when I get no moolah.)  The interview went well, however my recording device was a bit of a disaster.  Had I taken better notes, I may have saved myself a few hours of heartache at midnight, but one of my hands was occupied--diligently pressing the microphone to the earpiece while my subject spoke on speakerphone.  

These busy days are difficult for me because all this time spent on the phone or stressing over the words I can't understand on my garbled recording device are hours not spent thoroughly loving my girl.  I yelled at her twice yesterday for stupid crap, shooed her off the bed as I tried to transcribe during "Mary Poppins," and didn't even notice she had a poopy diaper.  

Yet, we still managed to have a fantastic day.  My girl is amazing, resilient, imaginative, clever and thoroughly the light of my life.  

It started in her bedroom.  Eliza climbed on top of her footstool and said "I'm dancing on stage."  I applauded and watched her shake her hips and kick her leg out to the side in this odd pose that looks like she's swinging her leg over a fence post.  Then the lightbulb went on.  I'd recently purchased Eliza this pink tutu skirt because it was on sale for $3.  

"If you're going to dance on stage, let's put on a costume."  I rushed towards her closet.  At first she rejected the tights, but then realizing they were part of the costume, she selected pink tights over white.  I then twisted a red onesey over her shoulders and clapped as I said, "Now you're going to wear a tutu."

Eliza's eyes lit up.  I think Zoe, a character on "Sesame Street," has familiarized my daughter with the concept of poofy pink things.  More excited than perhaps I should have been, I pulled out the scratchy concoction of pink net and slid it over her hips.  Eliza's new pink "spring shoes" completed the outfit and she was on that footstool a'dancing!

I did some plies and she imitated me--sort of.  I raised my arms and she stiffly raised one in what seemed like an homage to the Statue of Liberty.  She jumped off the footstool, and bounced back on.  All the while I applauded like a madman.

While I tore through the apartment on my stress rampage, hauling laundry, stirring tomato sauce (Yes, I decided to make sauce because I happened to have all the ingredients), rinsing off bloodied pants and setting up the bathroom as my "office," (It has a lock), Eliza intermittently climbed aboard various footstools and "performed."  And it was lovely and delightful and amazing.  

After her bath, I propped Eliza up on the sink and wrapped her in a towel.  

"I want to brush my teeth," Eliza said.  

I reached for her toothbrush, then suddenly adopting a crazy German accent, said, "You vill brush teeth, but first Mama vill kiss you.  And kiss you and kiss you!"  

I really went to town.  Buried my nose in her neck, and slid my lips down her little shoulder.  Oh my, this baby is so delicious.  Eliza giggled and squealed, covered her head up with the towel.  Still sporting my probably so-not-German accent, I howled "Where is my Eliza?  I must ave my kisses!"  

And then a forehead would pop out, followed by smiling eyes, a button of nose, perfect little cheeks.  Then the smile that could illuminate an entire continent.  I pressed for her neck like a ravenous vampire, but touched her skin with only the tenderest kisses.

What a lovely, wonderful, fantastic evening.  Sometimes I think this is why I love the nights when C isn't here and his kids aren't over, not out of my feelings for them, but because these wonderful, yummy, so fabulous moments seem to happen when we're alone.

Me and my girl, made for each other.