Mo really likes to color. I mean she is definitely like this kid here:
And she will get out her notebooks, crayons, markers and stickers and do it up for quite some time all on her own. Until she thinks, “I haven’t heard from Mommy in a while. Hey, I bet Mommy wants to color, too!” Which wouldn’t be so bad, if a) I really did want to color and b) I could just take the crayons and scribble my heart out. To Mo, Mommy coloring equals sitting next to Mommy while barking orders at her like an overbearing, milk-breathed hyperactive, three-year old drill sargeant:
With a tall hat!
And a long dress!
And a ring!
And long hair!
No, long hair!
No, I said LONG hair!!!
For the love of Pete! I’m drawing as fast as I can. I feel like Sandra Bullock in Speed, except, if I don’t draw the right thing, the right way, before she barks out the next order, hello toddler combustion! Good gracious! I have been reaching deep into my patience reserves whenever I see the crayons come out or whenever I hear her imploring little voice stringing the words “will”, “you”, and “draw”. See the thing is, I don’t mind it, really. I have gotten pretty good at whipping out those DP’s and their assorted accessories and paraphenalia. It’s just the threat of Toddle Def-Con 5 that makes me apprehensive.
Yesterday, we (I) were drawing at the kitchen table, Co contentedly gnawing on a hot pink Crayola while Mo shouted out her wishes in the chair next to me. As I drew, she inched closer and closer, up under my arm until I couldn’t even see the paper anymore. I kept reminding her to park her can on the seat, otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to draw anymore. The storm was brewing behind her eyes, but I nipped it in the bud with a quick, “Alright, what should I draw next?” (Did you guess Cinderella? Again?). Yeah, I need to start getting paid off of this or something. So I’m drawing and she’s issuing forth requests. We’ve got a tall, cone hat with hair coming out of the top, we’ve got a ring, we’ve got shoes, we’ve got it all. Mo then asks for tights. “Um, they’re under the dress,” I tell her. “You just can’t see them.” You’d a thought I promised her I was going to open a six-pack of whoop ass on her.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I WANT YOU TO DRAW SOME TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHTS!!!!”
and her whole body went stiff as she propelled herself out of the chair and onto the floor. Tears shot out of her eyes like she was a cracked out Pez dispenser or something. Co looked at me like, “What’s up with that?” and I just shook my head. On the inside I was thinking, “Oh hell to naw. I am not going to deal with this. I’mma just pack this up and we’ll figure out something else.” but what I said, which took a Herculean effort, was, “Now Mo, I can’t draw anymore if you are going to carry on like that. Can you please stop crying?”
“Nnnnngggggggggghhhhhh! TIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHTSS! SHE NEEDS TIIIIIIIIIIGHTS!!”
“Mo, why don’t you stand up and wipe off your face so you can see the tights under the dress?”
“Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh (I think that’s the sound of snuffling and blubbering).”
You get the general idea of where the whole thing went. We decided to give the crayons a rest and try it again when everybody was a little more pulled together. Still, I’ve developed a type of involuntary shudder/ negative Pavlovian response to the word “draw” or seeing Mo approach with bag o’ crayons in hand. *shudder* I freakin’ love coloring. . .