as a child

It's a slow day at work; can you tell?
One of the cool things about being a parent, or about being around little kids a lot, is that you get to see the world through their eyes. Sort of. Sometimes, the Lizzard won't divulge what's going through that peanut brain as we drive along. (other times, say, when we're watching yet another Veggie Tales tv adventure, she'll tell me EVERYTHING she's thinking.)
The other day, though, we had dropped off Daddy at the metro and were winding our way up the street to Lizzard's day care.

by the way -- have I mentioned it's the SAME building as where Deep Throat met with Bob Woodward? Someone suggested we dress Lizzard in a trenchcoat and have her peep out from behind the pillar where they used to meet. HA! Mommy would love to do the scrapbook page, but I don't think Creative Memories has Watergate-themed stickers just yet.

So back to the babe -- we're driving up the street, and she's doing her color association thing. "She has purple on, just like Daddy!" "He has blue on, just like Mommy!" "She has green on, just like me!" And up the street comes a shirtless man, lugging plastic bags and getting plenty sweaty already by 8:45 a.m. in the late-July D.C. heat. Heh. This should be good, I think.
"Hey, Lizzy -- that man has no shirt on!" I say. "He has a belly on!" says the ever-observant Lizzard.
HAR!
(I laugh as I make a mental note to cover up at least my midsection in future in front of the girl...)

Related thought, that I've been rolling around in my head lately. There isn't really a good way to say this that doesn't sound tremendously egotistical, but it feels SO good to be loved wholly, unconditionally, by another person. More than that person loves anyone else, in this case, though that isn't a necessary aspect. I am the center of this person's universe. Now, normally, this is not so much a good thing -- for one thing, it can be damaging to the person doing the loving, and it's a hard act to live up to for the person being loved. Lots of responsibility there. But that's what being a mommy has been, for me, so far. When I am with my child, she is HAPPY. (well, usually.) When I'm not, she's ... well, she's usually okay, actually. ... Anyway, my theory is, parenting is super intense, in stages, and you have to save it up and remember it later, when that stage is gone. This is not a unique concept, I realize. But it really resonates with me. We can do everything, as women. But not all at once.
I want to remember things like "lellow" instead of "yellow." "hello doctor" instead of "helicopter." The usual.
I have this mental image of a teenage Lizzy, pounding up the stairs, screaming, "I HATE YOU!", and slamming her bedroom door. I think about that sometimes when I get tired of being the only one she wants to be held by, or have nighty-night stories read to her by, etc. When I want ONE MINUTE to myself. When I have -- kid you not -- 3/4 of a page to read before I actually finish a novel (!!!) that I've been working on after Lizzard's plenty late bedtime. But someday soon, Daddy will have his turn, and that will be good. I'll be the 'other woman' in his life, and he'll be teaching her how to do nutmegs (whatever they are) with the soccer ball in the back yard. I know he, and I, in a way, are looking forward to that.
What I don't want to lose sight of, is how this child has shown me another facet of what love is -- by the strength of it in her, and the fierce love I feel as well. I think that was the most, of many, bizarre aspects of her infanthood. Feeling that passion for her grow in me. Even before I identified it as "love." Every day, I would willingly throw myself in front of any train -- and most days, it felt like I had -- for that colicky little fuzzy-headed screamer. But I wasn't even aware that I loved her yet. Or that I wanted her yet. (I've since decided that I very much, absolutely do.)
To sum: It's weird, and kinda cool, sometimes, to be loved so much and so exclusively. But I won't go getting used to it.