YES WE CAN

At birth, Onyeka weighed nine pounds; nurses called her ‘elephant’ baby. At one, she shot out two pairs of teeth; her mummy’s nipples confirmed their sharpness. At two, she excelled in things a child her age could do; her mummy and I were happy. One morning, her mummy wanted to do the usual routine—help her with porridge at breakfast.
"No, mummy, I can ‘food’ myself," she protested strongly on her low plastic table. Lashing her hands, stomping the floor, she did all she could, fighting the attempt at her liberty, attempt to spoon cereal into her mouth. Tired, she began to cry, and wooed my support with a stream of tears she let run freely down her cheeks. She won.
Her mummy looked at me. “Let her ‘food’ herself,” I said with a curious grin. At least, we had a truce right away. My cutlery on the table, I reclined to enjoy the morning fun, to see my daughter show her age and enjoy her freedom.
She would scoop a spoonful; get it to her lips, but not into the mouth. Some would plaster the left of the cheek, some the right, and some drop on her dress. She would try again and again until the spoon strayed into the open mouth, still letting some fall on her dress, while most fall on her table. She would drop the spoon in the plate and swipe her dress and face with the two hands. Then back to the job on hand. After she had decorated all available surfaces with patches of porridge, she turned to me.
"Daddy, see."

"Yes, I see," I replied, and suppressed a grin, at least, to appreciate her effort. "You can clean it up yourself, can't you?"

She nodded firmly and surely set about smoothing the plaster work. Soon, her face wore an abstract painting of caked flecks of porridge. The smudge on her dress got better spread like spray starch on the surface of cloth for ironing. She hadn't worked on the table yet when she peeked at me without a word.

Her mother had left two of us alone, her heart and soul on her breakfast as if that was the morning’s main job. Of course, I enjoyed the fun, and let my daughter know I did. "It's coming out fine, isn't it?" I asked her.

She nodded at first, and then shook her head. She looked at me again, looked at the plate; the cereal was almost gone. She tried to work on the table but her plastic spoon couldn't help, pushing some cereal onto the floor.

I read the rain cloud on her face and waited to hear a distant thunder rumble. But she bore on to show the ‘woman’ she was at two. I’d wanted to go back to my meal that had now gone cold when I noticed an appeal in her moist eyes as she held the spoon and looked at me. "You can't clean them up, can you?"

She shook her head and dropped her face, tears crawling down her cheeks.
I smiled at her mummy who was already through with her meal.
“Not different from her father,” she said.
“And her mother, too,” I replied. “That’s what we tell God every day. Yes, we can!”
We laughed.

My daughter looked helplessly at me again.
"Okay, go to mummy, she'll help you," I said, patting her shoulder.