Jocelyn is perfecting the art of being three. She is not as much interested in the WHY of life as in the WHERE and WHO. “Where you going?” “Who combed your hair?” “Who bring this?” And she is perfecting her defiance—something that takes over her sweet nature when I’m trying to get her out of the car or into bed each night. Tonight when I tucked her in for the third time she said, “Mommy, I had a rough day.”
Life at three is a series of stops and starts.
She started ballet class yesterday. I should say that I signed her up for ballet class, but she didn’t quite dance. She clung to Khary and screamed in agony each time he tried to get her to stand or twirl. The teacher told me that she may not be ready. I did not take this well.
For the second year we drove out to Livermore to Joan’s Farm to find the perfect pumpkin. Twelve months ago Jocelyn saw the pony rides and jumped and skipped and said, “Horsie! Horsie!” We paid for a ticket and stood in line. The man in charge took her hand and lifted her up on to the pony. She began screaming before he could even latch her belt.
I expected a repeat performance. Screaming, crying, and all-around fear. But she cautiously held onto the reigns with a coy smile on her face. At times I had to wave to get her attention because she was in deep concentration as the ponies walked around and around and around.
Her nose pressed against the glass, she asked loudly, “Who bring them?”