Chronicle of Lunchtime with a Toddler (at least my toddler)

This is the narrative of a real-life event. As in a real event in my real life. It's not a unique event, in fact, it happens often, but today it had me telling myself that I had to put it down in writing for some kind of proof and/or validation. So here it goes:

Date: Tuesday, November 27th
Location: At home.

12:40pm
Joanna has been back from preschool for a while and she is happily watching a newly discovered old cartoon show, so I delay lunch for a little bit.

1:00pm
I have delayed  long enough and feel like I should start moving on it before reaching the point of parental neglect.
I realize she has to pee so I ask her to please go to the bathroom before lunch. As usual, she denies any relation between her jittery movements and the need to evacuate her bladder; and as usual, I let her go on because if there is something I like to avoid, it is the screaming fights this girl can put on. I figure eventually she will have to give up the no-need-to-pee charade.

1:05pm
We approach the counter and as she sits on a stool I nuke some of last night's leftover spaghetti (aren't I a devoted mother?). To distract her from the fact that I am about to feed her old food, I give her  some of the brownies Sofia baked last night, which she starts eating before I get the spaghetti to her.

1:10pm
We halt the brownie eating and now there she is, swinging her legs as she sprinkles parmesan cheese on her noodles and takes a tiny bite.

1:15pm
I ask her to no avail to please keep eating. By now I have started working on my own lunch. She asks for a drink of water "in the penguin cup, please".

1:20pm
She notices a clementine orange on the counter and grabs it declaring at the same time that she does not want to eat it, just play with it for a long time. I sigh.

1:25pm
Jo remembers the little hang nail on her finger, so she asks for a bandage. I know she doesn't need it, it  really is a tiny thing and I am well aware of the fact that no matter how bad a wound is, a bandage does not stay on for longer than 3 minutes. Three minutes at the absolute most. But, like I said before, I have learned to avoid fights as much as possible, so I get her one; a big one that is, because she says that a small bandage won't do. I hand it to her still in the wrapping because I know from past experience that opening anything for her will send her into screeching mode. She opens it, peels the little paper thingies off, and as she tries to put it on, it folds in half and sticks to itself. It happens EVERY SINGLE TIME, so no surprise there. I watch her struggle with the sticky mess as I finish my salad and wait for her to whine for help.
She gives up, I fix it, and put it on her, although by now it has been handled so much it doesn't stick so well anymore. I try to ignore that and hope that she won't notice the loose end of the bandage. But it only took her two seconds to point it out. I get some scotch tape and wrap it around. It sticks, but it seems a little stiff.  "Never mind that, could you please eat your food" I tell her.

1:35pm
Joanna twirls the spaghetti with her fork and by now I am convinced that lunch is overrated.

1:36pm
She informs me that she is now removing the bandage. Of course.

1:40pm
Jo gets off the stool and hides under the dining table. I start my usual begging and negotiating: "Jo, please come back and eat your lunch, just three bites, that's all you need". To which she responds with a contradicting "but I don't want to eat three bites, I want to eat it aaaallllll" and starts belly-sliding on the floor, thus picking up every single particle of dirt with her dress.

1:50pm
Her bladder speaks to her, letting her know that holding it in is no longer a possibility. So off she goes in a hurry, asking for help. I walk with her to the bathroom and turn the light on. That's all the help she wants and let's me know that now she needs privacy. Good grief.

2:00pm
In the meantime I decide to start going through a document translation I have been asked to revise and Joanna comes find me. I drag her back into the bathroom so she can flush and wash her hands.  She asks for chocolate milk so I tell her to start eating as I make her some. I watch her walk back into the kitchen and then detour into the living room, taking notice of a small Christmas tree on the side table. "Mommy, is this a Christmas tree?", "Yes", I tell her, "Just like the big one". "So THIS is a Christmas tree, and THAT is a Christmas tree?", "Yes m'am, they both are. Aren't they pretty?". "Yes, but how come this one has these decorations?". That's it. I know when I am being played. I remind her of the chocolate milk and she drops the tree conversation and heads to the kitchen. I sigh. Again.

2:15pm
We are back in business. She reminds me that she still wants to eat it all. I don't believe her, but whatever.

2:25pm
Joanna has eaten as much as she will at this point and I declare lunch to be officially over. Stick me with a fork, I'm done.

An hour and a half, that's how long it took. This is the kind of lunch that makes me wonder whether I am an incredibly patient mother, or a complete push over. At least there was no yelling, screaming, or slamming of any door (oh yeah, she does that). Sigh. Don't know much, except that I love that girl. I truly, truly do, otherwise no one would have walked out of today's lunch in one piece . I am just glad it's over. We shall do this again tomorrow. No wait, we shall do it again tonight at dinner.

Cheers!

Literally

A pit in your stomach.
A hole in your chest.
A lump in the throat.
A burning sensation in the heart.

I have read/heard these phrases several times. People describing their sadness as if their bodies, not just their hearts, were broken.

Now, after three months and three days of my mother passing away, I go through my days, picking up life where I had left it off and going about my somewhat normal existence:  taking the girls to school, feeding the little one lunch, grocery shopping, finally getting back to the gym, volunteering at the school,  putting together celebrations such as birthdays, halloween, and the upcoming thanksgiving weekend.

I go through all of it not without a good amount of effort, ignoring my body's constant, gnawing call  to please go to bed and cover my head with the blankets. I have figured that if I stay busy enough, there is less time for melancholy or tears and at night I feel tired enough to avoid that scary gap between awake and asleep. Because if that gap catches me remembering things, there's no end to the night.

It all works until suddenly a single thought makes me feel that pit in my stomach. That hole in the chest. That burning lump in my throat. My heart being consumed. Quite literally. Real feelings that remind me that although life is back to normal, something is still seriously wrong.

I never knew those feelings to be so literal.

"Give it time" I tell myself as I take in a deep breath. "Give it time".