At about 10 a.m. Louis took his customary morning nap and Clara said, "Mom, let's go snuggle in the big bed."
So unexpected and wonderful was this statement, it was a little like stumbling across a cistern of cool spring water deep in the Saharan desert. I allowed my heart to hope, however briefly, that she might fall asleep so I could, too.
I should have remembered that, unless allowed to, for example, go without sleep for several nights and cross the country two or three times on a plane, or perhaps run the toddler equivalent of twelve miles, do fourteen puzzles and color a whole coloring book, all in the space of two hours, Clara doesn't usually nap during the morning, and she doesn't really "snuggle" either. Snuggling connotes a comfortable cohabitation of space with another person, a sharing of body heat. Clara does not want to cuddle with me so much as she wants to climb back inside my body. When we're lying together, she rearranges my limbs, butts her head into my neck and sometimes even squishes her face into mine, all to maximize the surface area of my skin that touches hers.
The other thing she does when we're meant to be snuggling that's really, really irritating, is she continuously rearranges things: the blankets, the pillow, my hair. Ever since she was tiny, she's been a super busy kid. It's cute when she's building forts down in the playroom or making five-course meals of plastic Bok Choy, apples and chocolate chip cookies in her play kitchen. It's not fun when you're lying next to her, your muscles weeping for rest.
I once complained about her constant rearranging to Simon and he told me that she was behaving like me, trying to continuously arrange and fix everything instead of just living in the moment. Perfectionism. It wasn't such a problem for me until it showed up in my child. It's like she's extricating my worst side, and then putting it on display for me.
"Mom," she whispered after we settled in and I pulled my thick comforter over the top of us. "We are cats in a winter storm." She yanked at the comforter so it went askew on my body and my legs stuck out the side. She pulled the pillow out from under my head.
"Mom, let's make a nest, a nice comfy warm nest for us to sleep in. We are cats, Mom, we are hibernating cats."
"Hey, I got an idea. Let's see how long you can go without moving." I said. She froze on her back, her front hands curled in front of her, close to her chest, her mouth agape and teeth bared. She even held her breath. I imagined she was trying to approximate what she thought a sleeping baby kitty might look like, and I was loathe to tell her the pose looked more like a T-Rex.
"One-Mississippi, Two-Mississippi, Three-" I began.
"Hey, Mom, I got an idea. I will be the baby cat and you be the mama cat and it is snowing outside."
"That was pretty good," I said. "Last time you only lasted for one second."
"Mom, why did you close your eyes? It's wake-up time, Mom."
"You just said a minute ago we were hibernating."
"We are hibernating, not sleeping, Mom."
"Mmmmpf," I said, and she went suddenly quiet. I could tell, from her mutterings and grappling sounds, that she'd found my phone and was flipping through the photos. Good. Maybe she'd let me doze for a few minutes.
Suddenly the room lit up in a brilliant light. I could feel it burning my retinas through my closed eyelids. That's it, I thought, I've had an aneurism. The kids have finally done me in. The kids and high-intensity water aerobics.
I opened my eyes and Clara had my phone and was grinning gleefully. "I got you, Mom! It's wake-up time!"
I took the phone from her and examined the photo:
It's not so bad. I'm not a fan of the nostril shot, but at least my lips are closed. It's a better photo than the one she took of me a few weeks ago, standing at the stove cooking, my butt a broad, shapeless red plain in the fleece Guitar Hero pants my mom got my husband for Christmas six years ago.
And it's a million times better than this gem, which Clara took of me at five am one December morning as I was stretching, and which I refer to as the, "chinless wonder shot.":
