We taught her how to say "Drama Queen"

Suzannah woke up early this morning -- just after six -- calling for Daddy. She's been doing more of this lately, which is a nice break since it's been nonstop MAMA MAMA MAMA for months now. I nudged Matt with my foot and mumbled, "Suzannah wants you," and rolled over, figuring he'd just need to give her a sip of water and a pat and she'd go back to sleep. (She was up far too late last night, so I knew she wasn't ready to get up for the day.)

A moment later, Matt returned to the bedroom, trailed by our daughter.

"She wants to snuggle," he explained. And so I prepared myself for the little feet climbing over my face as Suzannah heaved herself up on my side of the bed and snuggled down between us. She had the audacity to demand her share of the blanket and a pillow, and for a half-hour or so she squirmed and wiggled and sighed. I felt her feet in my back, felt her press up against me. I tried to doze, but I knew I wouldn't actually sleep as long as she was in the bed.

Finally, I rolled over and gazed at her. Her eyes were wide open, watching me in the dusky barely-morning light.

"Hey," I whispered. "Want Mama to tuck you back into your own bed?"

She pondered this for a moment before nodding. "Okay," she whispered back. She slid off the bed and padded across the hall, back into her own room, back into her own bed. She wrapped her arms around Cookie Monster and said "Night night, Mama." And there was something so inexplicably sweet about the whole thing. I didn't want to be awake at six this morning, and I was happy she went so easily back to bed, but in truth I loved having her with us for a little while. I loved just lying next to her, smelling the lavendar scent from her shampoo, feeling her soft little feet against my legs. I even kind of love her sleepily-sour morning breath. All the tiny tangible reminders that she's real, she's her own little person, separate from but very much a part of us.

She's so two right now, so two-almost-three. I say this to other mothers and exchange exasperated knowing smiles. Some of them go, "So, two going on thirteen, right?" And it feels true, sometimes. This week she's had all kinds of ridiculous tantrums, triggered by inexplicable things. Like my attempting to comb her hair and put a bow in when she was clearly busy, are you kidding me. And now, when she gets upset, she tends to burst into dramatic tears and demand Kleenex, A KLEENEX MAMA, which she scrubs tragically across her face and hands furiously back to me. (Oh, and the morning she didn't appreciate my hair-combing efforts, she rubbed the Kleenex over her head, like she was erasing the damage I'd done. And after her bath the other night, she didn't want the lavendar lotion, and after she sobbed "NO lotion, Mama," she demanded her KLEENEX and proceeded to try to rub all the lotion off her body.)

But as quickly as she can turn that on, she can turn it off. The other morning, the hair trauma quickly gave way to my sweet girl eating oatmeal, her soft little feet swinging above the floor. Matt bent down to kiss her on his way out the door, and she tilted her head and said, "Bye bye Daddy! I love you!" And then she blew kisses.

I didn't even think Matt would go to work after that.