My Best Girl

I sit, watching the unaffected simplicity of a three-year old. She never stops moving - she is wearing a necklace made of orange yarn and pretzels, which is growing smaller by the bite. Her curls frame her face as she munches, and suddenly she looks up at me and says, “I’m GORGEOUS!” And she is. Her knees are covered with bandaids, and her elbows are covered with scabs, all the result of happy outside adventures. Her pink miniskirt rides up continually, and matches her fuzzy pink slippers perfectly. She even wears the slippers to bed these days, the latest in what will surely be a long line of little obsessions.

“I’m a little thirsty,” she says coyly. When I suggest she go upstairs for her milk, she replies, matter-of-factly, “No, I want a wittle of your coffee -- kids wuv coffee, ya know.”

She knows by my look that she won’t get her way (this time), so she’s off to the next thing that grabs her attention - the kitty. She swings the fuzzy cat toy wildly around her head, and seems surprised that the cat runs for cover. Her conversation with the kitty goes something like this: “Kitty, you come here now. I want you to sit wight here wif me. HEY KITTY! Ohhhhhh, I LOVE you kitty! Where‘s Papa? I wanna go back upstairs.”

Meanwhile she’s dragged a laundry basket into the room and has captured the cat under it, stopping only to munch another pretzel off her necklace. The poor cat suddenly finds herself being twirled around the room in the laundry basket - child, cat and basket completely off balance until all three fall in a happy heap on the floor. Surprisingly, the cat stays, and curls up on her lap, and they both rest awhile in the basket. Not surprisingly, the cat bolts quickly and the child wiggles until she’s laying flat on the bottom of the basket, her legs dangling over the sides. A minute or two goes by - then, “Uh, Nini, I need some help. I can’t get outta this basket!” She’s right - she’s completely wedged in. I help her out of her fix, and by the time I get back to my chair she’s right back in the same position. I think I’ve been had.

“Hey, let’s go upstairs!” she cries. “Why?” I reply, “there’s nothing up there.” “Yes there is, there’s stuff and fings [things] up there!” I think I have to go. You see, playing with her is much better than writing about her.