I do it

Kennedy's cheeks puff out from her face with such shocking chubbiness that I sometimes wonder how she smiles without losing her eyesight. But smile she does, in wonder, in mischief, and in pure toddler stinkerhood. I say, "Baby girl, you are a mess." She nods vigorously. And I'm smitten.

Perhaps I am the mess.

Here's a conversation we have that makes me want to deliver barrels full of diamonds  directly to her doorstep.

Me: Kennedy, did you have any dreams last night?
Kennedy: Jess.
Me: Did you dream about monkeys riding bicycles?
Kennedy: Jess.
Me: Were they wearing pink tutus and eating pepperoni pizza?
Kennedy: Jess.
Me: Girlfriend, you have the best dreams.
Kennedy: Jess!

She giggles and hurls herself at me, and then she drags me outside to find lizards. As soon as she spots one, her body goes rigid with pleasure and terror.

The little squirt is independent to a fault. She wants to walk downstairs and eat unassisted and wipe her own bottom and change the television channel to her favorite episode of "Bubble Guppies" all by herself in spite of the fact that she barely has opposable thumbs. No matter. Her favorite chant is, "I do it! I do it!"

As long as she's not about to careen into traffic, I generally let her give the task at hand a go, but no sooner does she drop the spoon, teeter on the stairs, or have a little trouble navigating BrightHouse cable, then she demands, with no small amount of irritation, "Help me!" In two-year old parlance, this comes out sounding like "hop me," and I can't help but laugh. I say, "Little one, I think you mean, help me please." Evidently "please" actually means "increase volume and level of insistence, while flinging arms back dramatically." She wails, "Hop me, Gramma! Hop! Me!" So I scoop up a spoonful of macaroni and cheese and shovel it in.

Two bites later, she cries, "I do it!"

And so it goes.

I was sharing this silliness with my niece the other day, a beautifully fearless woman raising two girls of her own. Like all of us did when our kids were in elementary school, she rides the daily roller coaster of knowing, with certainty, that there is no other job more important than this one, but dear Lord, could I please pee in solitude, and is there any chance -- God, I'm begging here -- that there's an undiscovered Reese's Peanut Butter Cup on a pantry shelf the kids can't reach?

My niece listened to my Kennedy stories, giggling in all the right places, occasionally interrupting me to shout, "Savannah, put the dog down," or "Olivia, I don't care for that tone of voice," or "If I have to come up those stairs ..."

As I shared about my own little teeter-totterer, I realized how very like her I am. What fabulous independence I exhibit, attacking ever bigger, grander, more self-invovled plans, only to realize I've waded out too far before rattling the heavens with my indignant, "Help me!"

I like to think God is amused. Even laughing.

And that it's not often he has to threaten to march up the stairs to insist on a course correction.

But here's the thing I think might be true: God is as nuts about me as I am about Kennedy. Or -- wild hope -- perhaps even more so. Maybe during this lifetime of people-pleasing and performing and pounding the endless pavement of woulds and coulds and shoulds, over the roar of me wailing, "I do it! I do it!," He's been smiling at my nonsense and saying, "Okay, baby girl. You do it."

And, "When you're done, let's go find lizards."

And, "Tell me about your dreams."

And, "I love it when you hurl yourself into my arms."