Saturday, during potluck after church, Baby Girl sidled over to a boy who is easily a head taller than she, and certainly a year older. Compelled by an inner voice that shouted giddily, "It's Girl Scout cookie time!", she reached for the Thin Mint in the boy's hand and wrestled it right out of his clutches. Then she looked up at him as if to say, Seriously? You didn't even fight me for it, chump.
The boy's face immediately scrunched up, the mouth opened wide to bear his full set of 2 year-old teeth, the arms shot straight down along his hips like straws shaking in anger. A little cry crescendoed so that soon everyone in the room looked over to see the little boy falling apart and Baby Girl still standing with the Thin Mint, wondering if it was time yet to take a bite or was she going to have to inevitably give it back.
The boy's mother rushed over, reminding him there was no need to be bullied by a pipsqueak over a cookie.
Baby Girl stood still as though waiting for further instruction.
And I sat at a potluck table, powerless to rebuke or intercede as the tears streamed out of my eyes in a bellyaching fit of laughter. I had become that parent.
To think she was still resisting tummy time one year ago.