Sometimes, I am background noise.  I keep flipping the pages, reading the words, but she completely ignores me.  There are plastic animals to throw!  Laundry baskets to empty!  Wood blocks to lick!  Walls to bop one’s head into!  Tables to walk along!

When I give up, she looks back at me.  Like WHY DID YOU STOP TALKING, MOMMA?

Sometimes, I am a human jungle gym.  I lay perfectly still with my arms outstretched and she climbs all over me.  She climbs over my legs, takes a nibble at my jeans, licks my cheek, bangs her head into my neck.  Then she climbs onto my belly and lays her head on my chest while she taps her fingers on my ribs.

When I give her a squeeze, she pushes me away.  Like MOMMA, I’M TOO BUSY FOR HUGS.

Sometimes, I am a servant.  I respond to her cues and her whims.  I pick her up and then I set her down and then I pick her up and then I set her down.  She throws a toy and I retrieve it and she throws it again and I retrieve it again.

When I interrupt a pattern, she shrieks in protest.  Like BUT MOMMA!  I LOVE THIS GAME!  COME ON, MOMMA!

Sometimes I am a kissing monster.  I stomp my feet and tell her that I am going to get her.  She squeals with delight and crawls as fast as she can in the opposite direction.  I tease her, string the game along, and then I catch her and swing her up into the air.  I tell her that I caught her and I kiss her all over, on her toes and her forehead and her cheeks and I blow raspberries on her belly.

When I ask for kisses, she always obliges.  But it’s as though she has to fit me in, somewhere between throwing plastic animals and licking wood blocks.  Like OKAY, I GUESS I CAN KISS YOU, MOMMA.  IF I MUST.

Yes, baby.  Yes, you must.