Good night, Moon

Today, Amelia was a holy terror. She objected to not participating in the breakfast-making procedure and she verbalized it with actions. First, she took over mopping. That hallway would have sparkled by sheer will alone, had the incessant up and down marching of the swiffer not sufficed. The casualties; knick-knacks knocked over plus the actual area that needed mopping, those were my problem, not hers. All attempts to mop the dining area, specifically, the fruit grenades she launched under her chair, were countered by a fit of rage. A screaming, crying, baby pushed me away. Do I really want to discipline her over mopping? Fruit flies take days to hatch. Really, how clean does the floor need to be? Abruptly, she tossed aside the mop. Yaay! I can mop! Yay? I can mop? Huh? But before I could clear my mental cobwebs, here she comes again. With a doll basket containing daddy's t-shirt from yesterday, two mismatched Amelia socks and hey! those are my clean pjs! She raided my drawer! Oh no! She dumped the rest of the laundry inside my lingerie drawer! I guess it IS time to do laundry. But I wanted an easy day, since both she and daddy slept poorly last night, I woke up a lot and feel tired. Oh well. Half-way through loading the machine, she is off, running to the dishwasher. Is this what my day looks like to her? Now there's cutlery all over the sparkling wet hallway. Thank God for plasticware. Amelia comes and grabs my finger and pulls me to the back door. It's time to go out to play. Out we go, the sun makes me sleepier. It's so hot and it's only 9 a.m.? Oh no, this won't do! Amelia! Get your shoes we are going out! I don't need to repeat myself. She is off and comes back running with two different pairs of shoes. I put the white sandals on her little feet. She tugs at my hand and shakes her head. A pink shoe is pressed into my hand. Ok, we can change her shoes. Lather, rinse, repeat. Again. Ok, now I'm starting to lose my patience. Out we go, now! But at the door, she refuses. Grunts, takes a step back. I'm getting exasperated. She tugs at my hand and leads me back to the changing table. "Amelia", I say, "we just did this not five minutes ago..." sure enough, a suspicious smell reaches my nose. Sigh. I immediately feel guilty for thinking I was just fine not knowing she needed a clean diaper. Up on the table, she squirms, kicks my lip open, and doesn't want the diaper closed. As if her life depended on it. It' s still only 9:10 a.m. and I am exhausted. I close my eyes, mentally wishing the day over, when she giggles and tugs at my hand again. Amelia is perfectly still. The diaper goes on and she stands up to hug me very tight, patting my arm. My heart melts. Too soon, the long day is over. We read "Good night, Moon" over and over. We snuggle. She burrows in my bosom and her eyelids slowly flutter down. Flutter. And shut. Good night, Amelia. Sleep well, my child. I will try to be better tomorrow. I will try not to let silly things like dishes and fruit on the floor interrupt your happiness. Sleep well, I will guard your sleep. Good night, stars. Good night, moon. Good night, Amelia. You are my moon and stars.