Little Thing would crawl back up inside of me if granted the volition to do so. Yeah, I know all little things hang on their mothers like costume jewelry, but my Little Thing takes on her role with uncharacteristic seriousness for her age–striving to be a Hope Diamond instead of a Charming Charlie bauble.
She aspires constantly to be on top of me or touching me in some way.
Sometimes she just wants to cuddle, hug, or hold hands, and my heart grows three sizes like a Mama Grinch.
But during a recent hand holding venture, she dislodged our hands and grasped my right man-hand (seriously, I can palm a basketball) to her face for closer inspection. Upon spreading my fingers to a wide high five with her own pudgy phalanges, she selected my pinkie (because it has the word pink in it, I imagine) and yanked it in until it was an inch from her nose, going cross-eyed in the process. She refocused and stuck her tongue directly into the juncture where nail departs from finger. Before I could stop her, she wiggled her tongue back and forth four times, converting the indentation into a makeshift kindergarten saliva pool.
With confusion and distress emanating from every pore of her quirky, fanciful soul, she said, “Well, that didn’t work.”
My confusion and distress surpassed hers. I thought, what was she trying to do? Mommy reentry via fingernail bed was the only logical inference my mind could muster.
Instances like this are not happenstance in my household.
For example, she habitually ladles her pancake batter self over me while I’m reposing flat-backed on the bed reading. My love, a griddle, cooks her into a piping-hot, round hotcake, and she oozes buttery and syrupy adulations such as I love you, My Mommy; I am in your heart; or you are so pretty.
During one such browning process, she chimed, “I will always be inside of you.” And attempted her decree through flapjack osmosis.
Another episode happened on Monday while working on this very post.
I was sitting at the kitchen table. The click-clack of my fingers striking my laptop’s keys was the only sound in the house.
On silent wings, Little Thing flew over to me, landed on my lap, and perched there.
She stared longingly into my eyes. My heart grew. Then she flurried her tactics in a different direction.
“Open your mouth,” she chirped with an undercurrent of demand uncaging from her tone.
Startled, I did. She swooped and endeavored to dive-bomb her entire head down my gullet.
“Darn it,” she squawked in failure.
All of Little Thing’s become-one-with-mommy-undertakings strike me as hilarious and a tad weird. And I really don’t know the true objective behind her antics. I could solve the mystery of these cases by asking her, but that’s no fun. I’d rather relish in my own quirky, fanciful notions.