The poor kid never had a chance. Every hockey game that came on he watched with her (and since hockey can be found on the telly about nine months out of the year, she was exposed to a lot of it). She loves hockey. It calms her down. Seriously. And they bond in that special way that sports fans do.
Today she is cutting her four canines. This has been a horrible day, hands down. Not much sleep, much consternation and pain on the baby front, and lots of chewing on cold, damp things. I struggled through the day with a very miserable little girl, pretty much handing her off to her father has soon as he came home.
Mojo gave her a bath while I cooked dinner and afterward they settled down to their game. I hear a suspicious crunching from the living room.
"Are you feeding that child pretzels?" I ask.
There is a defiant affirmative. And the evidence to prove it is before me. She is on his lap, both faces turned toward the television, bits of pretzel clutched in their paws, chomping away. (Yes, I took a picture. No, I'm not posting it. They both don't look their best.)
She wriggled out of his grasp and was off like a shot through the kitchen and toward the front door, where Mojo's street bike is leaning against my kayak. We both jumped up to get her (since we had forgotten to re-erect the blockade after her bath and dinner) but were too late. There was a thud. A crash. And silence. That dreaded silence followed by a hollow howl of pain. She tripped on the bike and crashed her face into the fork that holds the front wheel on.
After an application of ice and much cuddling by Mama, she has a nice sized, almost ovate welt covering her right cheek. It looks nasty. Poor kid.
So now she is back on the couch, cuddling with Mojo. He is reading her "Where's My Cow?" by Terry Pratchett during the commercials. Complete with voices. I sit and listen, smile silently.
This is one of those "life is good" moments. But I swear, if one of that child's first words is "buggerit" I know who's to blame.