Christmas WishPosted: November 10, 2013
It was the weekend after Halloween and we were babysitting our 2 ½ year old granddaughter, Olivia, on Saturday. Each time we see her I’m always amazed at her rapidly expanding language skills and her ability to interact and, mostly, to actually act. She can be quite the pint-sized drama princess at times.
At one point during the evening, Olivia and I were in the garage. This is because she wanted to sweep. Since she’s been able to walk – at 10 ½ months – she’s loved brooms. I don’t get it, I just indulge it. So we were in the garage sweeping because there aren’t any lamps or wide-screen TVs or picture window curio cabinets for her to slam the broom handle into and break. At one point she was pointing and asking “What’s that?” to various items in the garage. A spare propane tank for the grill. Nana’s bike. Papa’s bike. A bag of potting soil. A trash can for recycling.
After the garage was amply swept and interest had waned in the various and assorted stuff scattered around the floor and walls of the garage, we hung the broom back up and returned to the Arizona Room and ‘Finding Nemo,’ which was almost over.
“What were you doing out there for so long, Livvy?” Bill asked.
“Cleaning with my broom” Olivia replied.
“Oh, good,” he said. “The garage can always use a good sweep.”
“Papa,” she said, standing in front of him and placing her tiny hands on his knees. “You have a bike.”
“Yes, honey, I do,” he said. “But right now it’s broken.”
“Broken?” she asked, cocking her head.
“Yes, broken. The chain came off and Papa has to fix it so I can ride it again.”
She nodded solemnly and patted her Papa’s knee. “My bike’s broke too,” she said with a pout. “I’m so sad.”
“It is?” Bill asked, not sure if she even had a bike. A big wheels, yes. A bike? Maybe, maybe not.
“Yes Papa, it is. It’s broke,” she sighed as she lowered her chin and furrowed her brow, putting just the right note of misery into her voice. “I’m so sad, sad, sad.”
“That’s too bad, honey,” Bill said. “Your daddy will have to fix it.”
“He can’t, Papa. It’s broke,” she replied with another pitiful sigh. “I’m very sad.”
“You know, Olivia,” I inserted, “you could ask Santa for a new bike.”
“Santa?” she asked, immediately perking up. She knew who Santa was because she’d seen him at Albertson’s two weeks earlier where he was slumming in shorts and a Sponge Bob tee shirt as he picked out a 5 pound Pork Butt at the meat counter.
“Yes, Santa,” Bill added. “It’ll be Christmas soon and you could ask him for a new bike.”
“A bike that’s not broke?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes, a brand new bike,” I added.
She thought about it for a few moments, actually resting her face against her hand and tapping her cheek as the wheels spun inside her perfect little brain.
“So, are you going to ask Santa for a new bike,” Bill asked, nodding his head in anticipation of her reply. “Maybe a pink one?”
“No,” she finally answered, climbing onto her Papa’s lap and refocusing her attention back on Nemo. “I want a car.”