Why does a raised voice merely warrant a
sideways glance before the
imp continues with the taboo act? Even when his hand is pulled away,
which does no more than interrupt his forward motion, even when his hand
is then swatted and finally his bottom, what compels that child to
insist on doing what has been forbidden?
Brandon's not allowed to climb on the room
divider. Nor is he
permitted to purposely drop his fork or spoon on the floor or pitch
food off the plate when he's eaten his fill. The first time he leaped
from the sofa to the coffee table was his last. Or it was supposed to
be. Purses weren't exactly off limits, but items in them were. I
thought zippered containers were safe. Not any more. Since his agenda
requires that anything in his hand must pass into his mouth for
sampling, Brandon had lipstick in his teeth before he experimented with
graphic designs on his shorts. His reaction when he spied his face in
the mirror as I washed the red from in and around his mouth was
priceless in its ecstatic reflection.
At twenty months, he's gained mobility,
ability and the mental
fortitude to satisfy his curiosity. He's learned that rocks have no
taste and that when they've sat in the sun, they may be hot. He's found
that mud puddles are more interesting than bath water and
stomping in them is necessary. If Maw stands too close and gets wet as a
result, even better. On our most recent walk, Brandon decided that we
should both run. He crowed at my effort to keep up with his toddler's
stiff-legged run, pausing occasionally so I could rest and then urging,
"Maw run; Brandon run." We both took a nap that day.
He consents to hold my hand when we leave
the car and move toward the grocery store. I've explained that I need
help walking in the street and it would be helpful if he'd hold my hand
until we get to the curb. Once there, he lets go of my finger, strolls
to the carts and announces he'll "push buggy." Bending at the waist and
putting his hands on the crossbar, with me steering from behind, we
amble along.
After we pass through the produce section, we enter the bakery area
where free samples are provided. Brandon releases his hold on the
cart, turns and raises his arms, signifying that he's ready to be
lifted to the basket's seat to have a snack. There's nothing so
endearing as his grin while he eats the fragment of angel food cake
squished between his fingers or daintily nibbles a crumbled sugar
cookie, rubbing his tummy, smiling and nodding his pleasure.
Yes, I'll let him splash in the mud
puddles and wash the lipstick from his face and shorts. Because I
always win the shopping battle at the bakery.
