LJ / DW Idol/ Survivor: Dig It

It starts with a want;

a simple want but with with lousy timing.

no words to explain but many passionate feelings abound:

     impatience

     insistence

     frustration

“Later” (I avoid the word,“no”.)

Her sense of time is yet-to-be formed and only now matters. 

“Let’s go read some Pete the Cat,” I offer. 

There is no reasoning

but my decision remains

because, consistency is key at this point.

Is this escalation going to be worth it?

     Heat rises; I take a deep breath.

     Hearts race; mine and hers.

     Her face reddens, akin to a panic attack.

Moaning and whining increases.

“Sorry sweetheart; not time now, but we can read your Pete story.”

Emotion escalates to something above anger:

     ire? 

     fury? 

     wrath? 

     rage?

She dramatically drops to the floor.

Her small, pudgy hands strike at the air.

Her bare feet bang the floor, pink polish chipped off her toes,

and vocals surge into howling.

She writhes and digs her tiny fingers into the carpet

but I must dig in as well and stay calm.

This will pass, but her conviction is powerful.

and I ponder as she swings her sweat-soaked, golden curls left and right,

will she become an actress? an athlete? a heavy metal singer in a band? an opera diva? or forever scarred because I told her “Snacks are for later”?

I clutch the Pete the Cat book to my heart and wait.

The screams sound like something awful in a horror movie.

She has my strong will with her mother’s short fuse. 
Damn!

She’s only two.

Her three-minute screech-and-scream fest feels like 30 minutes, but it probably feels more like three hours in her toddler-time world. 

I love her so much, but love doesn’t mean you don’t need a few rules,

even at Granny’s house.  

The fist pounding slows. 

The wails become softer. 

Tears mixed with sweat beads slowly trickle down her temples.

She sighs. 

Breathing slows.

Her blue eyes gaze to one side in exhaustion.

I’m still patiently holding Pete the Cat and his Four Groovy Buttons and I open to page one.  

She sits up and looks over at me quizzically

and joins me on the sofa. 

The incessant sobbing subsides. 

“Gwanny weed Pete?” (She can’t say ‘Rs’.)
 

“Pete the Cat is wearing his favorite shirt,” I begin, “the one with the four totally groovy buttons...”

 

Groovy, I dig Pete the Cat as much as she does right now. Pete is a cool kitty dude and he totally saved our day.

 

PS:

If you have small folk and have not heard about this literary blessing, I highly recommend Pete. He has music, books and videos. (See my icon.)

https://www.petethecatbooks.com/  or Amazon.com