the dance

I'm standing in the kitchen cooking dinner when two chubby hands grab the back of my leg.

"Hodeme," she says.

I have the music on and when I pick her up, I whisper in her ear, "Oh, do you want to dance with Mama?"

"Shesch," is the reply, "shesch, shesch!"

I start to dance with her, her full cheeks covered in graham cracker remnants.  Golden curls resting on my shoulder.  She raises her head and a smile spreads across her face, revealing that mouth full of tiny, perfect white teeth. More quickly than it began, it ends with her cries, "No dance. Moak. Moak!"

I relent.  "Okay, okay, I'll get you milk."

"And appu," she says.

"And applesauce? Yuck.  I'm not sure about that, Camille."

"No. appu! Mama, appu, appu!"

As I open the fridge, she points to the "other applesauce" -- or as you might know it, yogurt.

"And hodeme mama. Hodeme Mama."

--Camille 21 months