Last night Clara woke up at 2:30. I could tell two things by the tone of her cries: 1. She was going to need acetaminophen for her descending molars, and 2. She was going to want to be breastfed for comfort, and probably rocked for a long time after that.
"La-la," she croaked when I picked her up. She pointed to the rocker. "La-la! La-la! La-la!"
I gave her medicine and then we settled into the rocker. I turned on her overhead projector, which projects a scene of cartoon fish on the ceiling and plays lullabies.
The rule is, I rock and/or breastfeed for one round of lullabies. It usually takes about fifteen minutes or so for all the lullabies to play through and the projector to slowly fade. Last night we rocked through three rounds of lullabies. She curled up so tightly in my arms and sealed her little body against mine so completely, it felt cruel to put her back in her crib too soon. It was satisfying to watch her eyelids get heavy. Sometimes when that happens, I gently stroke her arm or push her hair behind her ear, and she instantly falls asleep.
This morning though, she was grumpy as a bear.
I had to transplant some tomatoes. It couldn't wait a day longer, I felt. Since it was rather cool outside, I dressed her in a sweater and pants.
Gardening with Clara takes a lot of patience. She usually wants to do exactly what I'm doing in the exact moment I'm doing it, in the exact location where I'm doing it. She overpowers me at the hose. She hangs on the handle of the garden rake until I let her take over. She positions herself right in front of me, so I can't even see what I'm doing.
Today was different, though. She didn't want to do what I was doing. She wanted to boss me. And she was pretty sure I was doing everything all wrong.
I dug a hole for a tomato plant and filled it with water. I put the plant into the hole and started to shove dirt around it. Clara made disgruntled sounds. She picked the plant up by its leaves and hauled it out of the hole. She wanted to use the spade to swish the water around in the hole.
"Clara, Mama's planting this plant. It goes in the hole. And we don't pick plants up by their leaves, okay?"
Her response was to run furiously in place while her arms hung limply at her sides, tilt her head back, and howl.
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