A lightbulb moment
Helena likes to stand in front of the refrigerator, door open. When she first became mobile and wanted to see what was in the fridge, I let her. We identified fruits and vegetables and other consumables. It was a learning experience. Now, it's annoying. The kitchen is small. It's nigh impossible to tear her way until she's finished her inspection without the frustrated tears of a task incomplete, or else bodily injury. For some time, I took her obsession as a sign she was hungry. I'd point and ask: yogourt? would you like some mango? maybe some cheese? I've decided hunger has nothing to do with it.
Helena has discovered the little button, the one the door closes on to make the light go off. Now she worms her way in front of me when I open the fridge to press the button to make the light go off. Repeatedly.
Sunday morning Helena had the longest bath ever. We usually bathe her in the evening, but she was overdue and exceptionally grimy, and it being bloody cold outside it seemed like a good way to spend the morning, maybe even encourage a nap.
For whatever reason, she put her hands down in front, propping herself up as if to crawl, reach for a toy maybe. Then she straightened her legs out behind her. Kick, kick. "Swim!" She rested on her knees to tentatively draw up her hands to "stroke" the water — doggy paddle, then more exaggerated, like a front crawl. Hands back down, kick the legs some more. "Swim!"
Does she remember summer days we spent at the wading pool?
Occasionally when I pick up or drop off Helena at daycare we walk through the underground mall and pass a glass door behind which is the swimming pool of the YMCA. From metres away she points and cries "Piscine!" and runs up to press her nose against the door. She waves and yells "Hallo!" to all the swimmers behind the door, who cannot hear her. She makes swimmy-fish motions with her arm. "Plouf!"
Time to sign her up for swimming lessons. Our bathtub's not big enough.