... The Body of Jackson Pollock

This morning I awoke relatively rested and pleased after a rare and decent night's sleep, meaning that Emmy only woke up twice instead of four or five times. But this peace and satisfaction quickly turned to irritability and impatience as Emmy whined her way through the morning, rarely wanting to be more than 2 feet away from me, and wanting everything that she can't have and nothing that she can. I gave up on much of my intended chores, trying to just be with her as much as possible and give her the attention and love she deserves, but for which I often feel like I unfortunately don't have the time. Enter now the constant feelings of guilt and shame which come with motherhood.

Well, after a time, Emmy was finally content sitting next to each other doing independent activities: I, checking my e-mail and such, and she, coloring on the floor (on a paper on the floor). I was thoroughly enthralled reading the blog of a fellow mom, who writes much more frequent, thoughtful, and touching entries than I do, when all of the sudden!!... Emmy pops up with black permanent marker all over her face and hands. "OH GOD!" I say, freaking her out. Here return the guilt and shame feelings. Where did that marker come from??? I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps the Ghost of Christmas Present gave it to her to teach me a lesson about taking my eyeballs off my toddler. So here's poor little sweet Emmy, all marked up after making a truly inspired drawing:
I get her mostly cleaned up-- who knows when the last remnants will slough off. And then I decide to clean myself up too, figuratively more than literally, and take a shower. I get undressed and Emmy sees something on me which makes her walk briskly out of the bathroom and return with a purple crayon. I then figure out that she sees a kitty scratch on me and thinks that Mommy was doing some body art, and Emmy would like to contribute. I continue on with my breezy shower with the door open (as this is how we do things when one of us is alone with Emmy), and Emmy really wants to hand me a crayon. I try to think of something she'll understand, so I say "Please put the crayon on the potty. Thank you!" Then she lifts the lid of her own little potty and puts that crayon and another one she's found in the meantime into the potty. No biggy because Emmy's potty is just for looking at and not for using at this point, but still-- you don't want your kid thinking that a toilet is a good place to store her belongings. I've still got conditioning and soaping to go, so I try another game: "Emmy, find the triangle!" There are blocks all over the bathroom floor and I figure talking about shapes will get me through the rest of my shower. Emmy scans the floor, then again walks quickly from the bathroom returning with her book with different foam shapes in it. Then Emmy, the smart little thing, pops out the yellow triangle.

One minute she's absolutely maddening, and the next she's sweet and miraculous. And that leads to my true realization from the morning: Emmy's always trying to do her best, and so am I. We just want to please the heck out of each other. I love her to pieces for her efforts, and she loves me to pieces because a bright-eyed 18 month old doesn't know any other thing to do.