My Girl

My girl is almost 2-years-old. She's about 3 feet tall and 27lbs. When I put her to bed each night, she asks, "Mommy, rock you?" She wants me to rock her in my arms. The rule is that I have to be standing. I'm not sure why. She doesn't like to rock in a rocking chair. It's always been that way. I cradle her in my arms, a slender bundle of limbs. She looks up at me and smiles. I rock her back and forth and sing, "Be My Baby," the line, "For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three!" She holds her hand up, so I can give it a kiss. Then I nuzzle my nose against her cheek.

Soon after, my back gets sore, but I hold her long after I should, reminding myself that I won't be able to rock her like this for much longer. I put her down, and she rolls over. I keep singing while I rub her back, until she gets sleepy enough to fall asleep on her own after I walk out of her room.

I love these little moments with her.

Yesterday, I took her to get ice cream. I've always gotten her vanilla. Chocolate ice cream isn't a favorite. Ice cream doesn't usually agree with me, but I treated myself to a tiny scoop of Ben & Jerry's Pumpkin Cheesecake. 'Tis the season, after all. She wanted to try my ice cream and proceeded to eat the entire cup. She even took my spoon away as I tried to get a bite in.

"Hey, I want some. Can I have my spoon back?"
"No."

Finally, I convince her to return my spoon and decide to have a few bites of the vanilla.

"No, that's mine!" she protests.

Apparently, both ice cream cups are hers. I explain to her that we're sharing this time, and she eventually agrees. She's happy to have the pumpkin flavor all to herself.

We play at the park, visit with the cows, then head home.