Yesterday, I arrived at Hanley Inc. to relieve Hanley’s other nanny, despite the fact that a head cold of epic proportions was brewing within. I made some chicken noodle soup, and chased it with a dose of DayQuil, both of which made me feel worse. How is that possible? Two hours later The Big H woke from her nap and started screaming. I dashed upstairs to see what was the matter.
It never ceases to amaze me how the dependency and needs of a child can instantly push everything else to the back burner. Once again, my worries, problems, and feelings evaporated as soon as I saw Hanley. She was thrashing about in her crib–Yes. She just turned three and is still in a crib. She loves her crib, has only scaled the rails to leave it on her own accord once that I know of, and isn’t the kind of child that wants to sleep with her parents. Is that odd? I have no comparison, other than what I see on television or read, so I legitimately wonder. Usually, Hanley wakes up and entertains herself in her crib until she gets bored, and then she calls out for her mother to come get her. I can see how that would buy a parent valuable time in the morning. Who wants to mess with that arrangement? H’s mother has said she’ll let her sleep in the crib until her feet bust through the rails or when she’s ready for college, whichever comes first.
Anyway, as I was saying, I raced into Hanley’s room and my sinuses cleared, the haziness in my head vanished, and I forgot about my aches and pains when I saw Hanley crying in her crib. The Big H was more powerful than any Vicks product. She looked at me and wailed, “No! I want to sleep by myself!” Loosely translated, that meant she wasn’t ready to get up yet and, even though she was crying, she wanted more time to wake up on her own. Or, better yet, she wanted her mother. Certainly not her me. She stuffed her face into her pillow and yanked her blanket over her head. My headache returned, I coughed and looked for a tissue. “Look, Hanley. Uncle Tim feels like crap today, so I need you to be cooperative. Can you do that?
Silence.
I reached in and pulled her out of the crib before she could grab any sucky rags, a verboten act. Rather than scream, she curled into my body and pressed her face into shoulder, like a vampire shunning the light, so I sat in the rocking chair with her. “As I was saying, I don’t feel well, so I need you to–”
Hanley immediately sat up and put her fingers in my mouth and interrupted me. “Can we go to the park?”
I pulled her hand out of my mouth and did my best not to think about where it had been. “I’m afraid not, pumpkin. You woke up late from your nap and now the sun is going down. Plus, I really don’t feel like it.”
“Oh,” she said, she pouted. If she learned anything while she was two years old it’s how to pout and manipulate those around her. Now that she’s three, I suspect she’ll move on to hot-wiring cars and shoplifting. “Can I watch television?”
“You can read books, color, or play with your toys.”
“I’ll color,” she announced, and rested her head on my chest again. I saw her smile, as if she’d won her argument.
“You drive a hard bargain,” I said, and kissed the top of her head.
We went downstairs and she stopped in the foyer and exclaimed,”Mommy did that!”
“Mommy did what?”
“Mommy put the–. Mommy put–.” It occurred to me that she was pointing to the Christmas wreath newly hung on the front door and didn’t remember the word for it.
“That’s a wreath.” As soon as the word passed my lips a wicked thought popped into my hazy head, and I couldn’t help but add, “Uh. A wreath-uh. Aretha. It’s a Christmas Aretha.”
“Aretha,” Hanley repeated.
“Very good,” I replied. “So you’re saying Mommy did Aretha?”
“Yes! And she did the Santa Socks!”
“She did the what now?”
“Look!” Hanley ran into the living room and I followed. She climbed on the sofa and pointed at the fireplace. The mantle was adorned with Christmas stockings. Santa socks. How adorable is that? The haze cleared again, so I scooped her up and said, “You win. We can do whatever you want.”
“Read to me.”
“Just because your made up word was cuter than mine doesn’t mean you get to be bossy. Say please.”
She pouted and said, “Please, would you please read with me?”
How could I say no?
