This is what happens when you pick up the rice canister by the lid.
I wish I could tell you I had no idea that would happen. . .but I probably should have said that before the first time. . .after which I diligently picked up and washed the whole mess. It's cooked and still sitting in my freezer downstairs.
I carefully swept it up, and Carolyn helped by sweeping (Read: scattering) my neatly-swept pile to the ends of the earth. Or maybe just the kitchen--it was hard to tell. Then she told Daddy what a mess I made.
(In case you're wondering, I threw it away.)
We've started encountering some of the "big" conversations. Carolyn told me very somberly this week that she didn't want to die, or for Mommy, Daddy, or Adrienne to die. Answering these two-year-old concerns is such a challenge to my own faith. You don't really know your doctrine until you've simplified it into words a toddler understands.
Carolyn is growing and learning so quickly that I often feel as if I scarcely know her now. She isn't a baby any more and, though she is in many ways still a toddler, she is more a child every day.
There's something bittersweet about rocking your two-year-old to sleep on the night she first confronts the coming-of-age ritual that is sleep without a pacifier. I relished the sweet baby that still needs her mommy's arms, all the while singing softly and thinking how this night would foster her further independence. What a paradox parenthood is.
