Sugar Baby

The first time Emma had something sweet was when she was about 2 months old. Rodney let her suck on a piece of watermelon...or was it cantaloupe? Anyway, her eyes got really big and she grabbed on with both hands and wouldn't let go. It was hilarious to see her so aggressive. When her daddy pried it away, she was devastated. So he gave it back.

Later, we let her have a bite of ice cream or a lick of an orange cream popsicle. She and Ethan are now hopelessly drawn with great magnetic force to every popsicle or ice cream bowl they ever see. Once on the playground, Emma spotted an old mini Blue Bell ice cream container in the gravel. She picked it up and immediately raised it to her mouth. She knew what that was--birthday party ice cream! I was watching from above on the big toy, so I caught her before she could taste the sticky, dirty vanilla--"EMMA, NO! That's dirty trash!" She threw the cup down hard and ran away, startled, irritated, humiliated.

If they see you having a treat, they each make a beeline to your side. One perches on the arm of your chair and the other crawls up in your lap. They lick their lips and open their mouths like little baby birds. They chant, "bite o' ice cream, bite o' ice cream, bite o' ice cream...mmmmm, mmmmm, mmmmm...." When you pull it back to take your turn, they pine and pine, stare at what remains of the popsicle, puff in and out, move their faces closer and closer. You'd think I'd give them some discipline for their bad manners. We all have our weakness. Theirs is sugar. Mine is them.

After the popsicle is gone, Ethan moves on, but Emma is terribly upset. She suddenly forgets how nice you were to share, and she focuses on how mean you were to run out. She starts in with the guilt trip. It's already gone? You take bigger bites! Isn't there any more??  Sugar is her kryptonite. Her bones turn to mush, causing her to drop to the floor in a puddle of despair. She may even bang her face on the carpet for extra effect. Then, she picks herself up and drags her limp body over to the couch and throws her upper body on the cushion, wailing and wailing in the highest pitch with her arms overhead like in one of those dramatic dying scenes from a black and white movie. Poor little damsel in distress. She looks out of the corner of her eye to see if I'm getting all of this. She is so expressive and sensitive like her momma. Her brows are pulled down and raised in the middle as if she is thinking, "OMG! I cannot believe this is happening to me! How will I ever live?"

I try not to laugh at my daughter when she's upset, but it's pretty funny. "Ohhh, I know. I'm so sorry, sugar baby," I say, and I really am.  I start jokingly telling her she is "going to have to face it. It's gone." Pretty soon, Ethan starts repeating me:

"Face it," he says. "All gone. Face it." Such a realist.

Emma starts getting over it very gradually. First, her brows relax, but she keeps wailing for several more minutes, hypnotized by the siren song. Soon, her mouth relaxes too and the pitch drops to her normal tone. A minute or two later, she's finally quiet. Defeated. No more cookies come, no more candy, no more orange cream popsicle.

Just Emma with a sugar hangover and an orange mustache.