The Folly in Wishing for Fast Forward

Today was a day of learning technology.

I hate learning technology.

And, as I sat there, with Chad on the phone trying to walk me through every agonizingly frustrating step of the grueling process, Emerald cried.  No, she didn’t just cry.  She screamed.  In my face.  About everything.

With the technology headache slashing my patience to ribbons, I had a moment of just wishing that Emerald wasn’t two.  I don’t know what age I wanted her to be–maybe a calm and careful nine.  Or a sweet and quiet six.  But, her two-ness was raging, and technology was uncooperative, and I just wished for something other than the textbook toddler moment we had going on.

I decided to quit for the moment and take her home to let her eat and nap–two fairly vital parts of her day.  And, as I buckled her in the car, her face still wet with tears, she launched into a long story about Sawyer and his Legos.  She spoke in her broken baby-English, and her exaggerated facial expressions and her grown up looking gestures made me laugh.

 Tonight before bed she was pretending she had forgotten how to say yogurt.  “I want some orgash,” she sang, before  dissolving into a footie-pj-ed pile of giggles.  I watched her eyes squint as part of the huge grin that covered her tiny face, and I wondered how I could ever dream of rushing this stage, this age, this day-I-will-never-have-back.

While she napped, I figured out the technology.  When she woke up, she cried.  And she laughed.  She danced and sang and she refused to get out of the tub.  She had opinions about which pjs to wear, and she insisted on a peculiar and painfully slow method of eating her “orgash.”  She wanted to wear shoes to bed.

And, tomorrow we’ll do it all again.

I’m glad.  So, so glad.