This evening, Sophie invited me to sit in the bath with her. Then she attempted to wash my hair, doing exactly what I do to her: carefully shielding my eyes with one of her hands while using her other hand to pour warm water over my head. She forgot the whole soap part of hair-washing, and that was probably for the best. She was very intent on the water-pouring eye-shielding part of it, continuing for at least ten minutes, and almost managing to get all my hair wet.
It’s not quite a spa-gift-card, but I think it’s about as close as a 23-month-old can ever come to giving a mother’s-day gift, and it felt wonderful.
I had been encouraging her to wish a happy mother’s day to the other moms we saw today, and so then, just before sleep, when we were rocking in the rocking chair and reading her book, On Mother’s Lap, she decided that she would put her favorite blankie over both our heads, give me a hug, and whisper to me, “Mama’s Day.”
And all of this entry — really all of this blog — makes me think of Susan Dominus’s paragraph in today’s New York Times book review, prefacing her review of Ayelet Waldman’s Bad Mother:
Writing about motherhood is a little bit like writing about sex — in both cases, the author confronts the challenge of finding something new to say about a subject so powerful that all but the most inspired language sounds trite or overblown.