I Grow Taller and Taller and Bigger and Bigger!

A dispatch from Bread Co., where the Wi Fi is free, the air is sticky with heat and humidity and the men are inexplicably swarthy.  And that bothers me.

Last night Matilda and Mom were partaking in a secret society of women who knit.  It's a society in which I am not allowed because when confronted with yarn, I bat it like a cat.  I can't even make a decent knot, much less knit one pearl one drop a stitch in time saving nine.  Mom and Matilda are good at it.  They make things.  Things that I do not know what they are yet, but time will soon tell.
 
Apparently Matlida was taught how to crochet last night.  Just like my Mom.  I'll let the family know to expect Afghans for Christmas.  Just like Mom used to make.
 
Gertrude would have wanted to go because she too has knitting needles (plastic ones) and she carries around a skein of yarn she has named Sophia.  Periodically she stabs Sophia with the needles and says she is making a hat.  I have to trust her because if I don't she may stab me next.
 
But she's a little too chaotic to join a knitting club.  While the women knit and bitch Gertrude would be flipping around brandishing her knitting needles like a Ninja.  So she and I were left to our own devices.
 
I knew she'd be upset that she didn't get to go to the knitting party, as she calls it, so I just didn't tell her.  Instead, after the ladies left, we loaded into the car and headed off to the park.  In the trunk, I told her, is a surprise.
 
"Is it an elephant," she asked.
 
"No, it's not an elephant."

"I won't look." she promised.
 
Upon arriving at the park I got her out of her seat and carried her to the trunk.  I popped it open and she saw her surprise.
 
"MY BIKE!"
 
She strapped on her helmet and we wheeled her mode of transportation to the path.
 
"Where is your bike," she asked.
 
"Well, my bike is too big for the trunk.  And you're still a little random with your steering choices, so I thought I'd walk beside you."  Stupid me.  Walk.  Ha!  Once she was on the bike she was off like Lance Armstrong breaking away from the peloton.  I ran for a good half a mile in 95 degree heat with 900% humidity.  All the while the child screamed with glee.
 
We made a few pit stops.  First to pick some flowers (or weeds, as landscapers call them) along the edge of the woods.  We stuck them to her bike and continued to ride.  When we encountered a hill, she stood on the pedals and pushed hard, like Lance winding his way through the Alps.
 
After making it once around the half mile track I drank most of the water coming out of the water fountain.  Gertrude took a sip and ran at full tilt to the play ground.
 
"What should we play," she asked.

"How about dehydrated and dead," I suggested.
 
Instead, we played pirates.  We had the entire playground to ourselves, so we played hard and long. 
 
"I'm looking through the noculars," she told me.  I asked what she saw.  After all, we were pirates, so there were going to be rough spots.
 
"A tree," she screamed.  And odd obstacle on the open seas, but one that must be dealt with.
 
"Hard to starboard," I yelled.
 
She took evasive maneuvers and eventually we found land where we rode our horses and collected apples.  I suggested we look for oranges, lest we get scurvy, but I was told that we couldn't make pie with oranges.  True. 
 
Finally we succumbed to real world hunger and hit the road in search of ice cream.   Which we found and consumed with glee.
 
On the way home we somehow decided to discuss school.  "I will grow taller and taller and bigger and bigger until I will go to school," she told me.  That somehow signified the passage of three years.  Little did she know how right she was.  I explained that when she goes to school I will take her to the bus and pick her up every day, just like I do for Matilda.
 
"You know," I said, "on your first day of school I'll probably cry when you leave.  I cried on Matilda's first day of school."
 
"But Daddy," she said, "I'll come back."  Translation:  You are an idiot Dad.
 
After quickly bathing off the sweat and ice cream from her body, we settled down on the couch to watch the rerun of Stage 15 of the Tour.  Yeah, I’m not much for sports, but the Tour is addicting.  And she loves it.
 
"They are going fast," she squealed with joy as she watched a group of riders crest the climb and speed downhill.  

She was allowed to stay up late and as soon as we heard the door open we ran to bed, to pretend like we had gone on time.  Alas, we were discovered.
 
As she listened to her music and snuggled under her covers, she gave me a big hug.  

"I want you to stay with me," she said.
 
"I want to stay with you too," I said.
 
Somehow I think we meant different things.  She was trying to delay bedtime.  I was trying to avoid her growing up.
 
Somehow, despite the fantastic evening we had together, I think we both failed in our endeavors.   For she fell asleep, and I felt a pang of regret mixed with pride as I looked at her sweet face and realize that no matter what I did, she was growing up.  I have to admit, I was getting a little misty.
 
Then I heard a giggle.  Her eyes shot open, "I was fooling," she told me.  And she gave me a hug.  

"Yeah," I said, fighting back emotions.  "So was I."