Cookie Crumble

four star shaped cookies

Photo by Cook Eat on Pexels.com

 

It is the cookie that she wants

No teddy bear, no owl, no bunny.

It is the cookie that she holds

In hand, not in her tummy.

She takes it with her to the park

She holds it all through bedtime story.

She’d bring it right into the bath

To her it’s mandatory.

Her mother sighs

Because she knows:

It is the cookie that will crumble

All over blanket, sheets, and pillow.

The cookie that she’ll have to pry the last remains of

From her child’s hand tomorrow.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt

Park Pretty

May NYC1 NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

“Pink tree!” she delighted

Toddled quickly, pulled my hand

“Park pretty!” she exclaimed

“Come fast! Come fast!”

“Take picture?” she requested

And of course, I obliged.

 

 

For the Sunday Stills Photo Challenge

 

Pack a Treat!

Packing--Osnat HalperinBarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

Come on Daddy, let’s pack

Some more rocks on your back

This way you will discover

All the treats I uncover

Also bugs and some leaves

Gifts for Mommy to retrieve.

 

For Tuesday’s Photo Challenge: Treat 

 

Cookie Share

round biscuit with heart jelly in center

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” she said. “And you have to answer.”

“Fair enough,” I smiled. After all, I’d just subjected this child to a long list of questions to which she had to respond.

“What if,” she began, twinkle-eyed, “you had only one cookie, but you needed to share it with fifty kids?”

“Hmm …” I pondered. “That’s a tough one. One cookie only?”

“Yep!” She raised her eyebrows in satisfaction at what had to be my stupefied expression.

“Can I hand out something else instead?” I bargained.

“Nope. One cookie, fifty kids.” The eight-year-old was utterly too pleased with herself.

I smelled a rat but I wasn’t going to show it. She’d earned this after soldiering on through the difficult portions of the testing battery. “I give up.” I raised my hands in surrender. “I don’t see how I can split one cookie between fifty kids.”

“I never said how big the cookie had to be, did I?” she chortled. “If you have a gigantic humongous cookie it would be easy peasy to have everyone share it!”

 

 

For Cee’s Share Your World June-18-2018

Kind of Famous

Rose DvoraFreedman

Photo: Dvora Freedman

 

“I’ll be famous,” she said, twirling and eyeing her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a particularly twirl-worthy skirt and a shiny pair of sandals.

“Yep, famous,” she repeated with finality. She spun a few more times then stopped mid-turn to face me. “Do you know what famous means?”

I raised an eyebrow in half-query, half-invitation. Children’s explanations are immensely more informing than anything I might attempt to guess at.

“It means everybody knows you and everybody likes you a lot.”

“It does?” I lent a slight undulation to my voice in what I hoped was just a smidge of challenge for the second part.

She’s a perceptive little one. She caught it. Paused. Frowned. Pursed her lips and pursed them again in front of the mirror to inspect the effect. “Well, everybody knows famous people,” she countered and puckered her lips a few more times to make a point. “But … maybe not everybody likes them?”

I smiled and raised my eyebrow again.

She straightened and crossed the room to lean into me. “Because some famous people can be bad?”

I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Some. Sometimes people get famous but not for very good things.”

She nodded into my side. “Like Hitler and … you know?”

“Yes. Hitler … and some other people … are known for doing very very bad things.”

“I don’t want to be that kind of famous.”

I gave her a squeeze. “I understand. I wouldn’t worry … You are nothing like that … You have a beautiful, loving, caring heart. It’s not a bad thing to want to be famous. Most famous people aren’t bad. Most people in general aren’t bad. Famous and not famous ones.”

She leaned into me a moment longer. She knows hardship. Young as she is, the pain of cruel actions isn’t abstract to her.

I took a deep breath to remind her she was safe. She followed. Took another. Shook the pensive worry off and looked down into her magnificently twirl-worthy skirt.

“Well,” she stood and made a quick half-turn, watching the edges of the fabric lift and roil and dance and fly. “I’ll be the good kind of famous.” She walked back to the full-length mirror to reinspect her reflection. “The beautiful heart kind …”

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

The Crank

Silver Gelatin Print

Photo: Vivian Maier (Girl Crying) N.Y. 1954

 

She huffed and she puffed and she stomped her small feet. She whined and she cried and she kicked the car seat. She refused to wear shoes, threw her coat on the ground. Made sure everyone heard her for miles around. She tossed food on the floor. Then asked for some more … Like a kid on a mission for the spoiled child edition.

Evening came.

Gramma called.

Mama handed the phone.

“Tell me now, little one, what on earth’s going on?”

“I’m a crank,” the child said in response. “Now Mama’s tired, all on my own.”

 

 

 

For more of Vivian Maier’s amazing photography: http://www.vivianmaier.com/

For The Daily Post

The Lost Quartet

fishbowl

 

 

He reached into his pocket and rummaged around. “I’ve brought something to show you,” he said, eyes searching mine. “But it’s a secret …”

“Oh?” I offered.

“Well, sort of,” he shrugged as an uncertain smile worked its way into his cheeks. “I took them to school … but I didn’t tell anyone … because we’re not allowed to … The teacher woulda’ taken them away and other kids maybe woulda’ told her or asked to see them and then she’d know …”

I hiked my eyes up and nodded my expectation.

The grin grew but it still held a sheen of sad.

He pulled his fist out of his pocket and turned it so the back of his hand rested on the table, then ceremoniously uncurled his fingers.

Four grains of rice in tiny vials, strung onto a keychain ring.

“They have names on them,” he said reverently.

I squinted and reached for a magnifying glass. Handed him one.

Our heads met over the small nest of palm and he mouthed the words, more sigh than voice.  “Fee, Fi, Fo and Fum.”

A quartet recently eaten not by a giant smelling the blood of an English man but by a feline with a swishing tail who had knocked the fishbowl over and left not one golden scale behind.

 

 

For The Daily Post

Jujus

magic all around you

Photo: Samantha Mars

 

She dragged her book bag up the stairs.

Step, bang. Step, bang.

“It looks heavy,” I noted.

“Yeah,” she huffed and paused to frown in the direction of the patchwork of princesses on the backpack. I found myself wondering whether she was directing discontent at her idolized figures not using their royal powers to, at the very least, summon genie help to manage gravity.

“Want me to help carry the bag for you?” I offered.

She raised an eyebrow as if the mere thought of my definitely-not-princess hands handling her bag was beneath the Disney figures that dignified it.

The first-grader lugged the bag another step and stopped, perhaps to reconsider if there are times when commoners’ help is better than none at all. “Yeah,” she nodded.

I walked down to take the bag from her. The thing was heavy!

“What do you have in there?!” I asked. “Rocks?!”

“Aha,” she nodded sagely, skipped a few steps up ahead of me and swiveled her head to look back at me. “Come faster. I want to show you.”

I lifted the bag (and an eyebrow) in her direction and she giggled. “Sorry… Thanks.”

Once upstairs she indicated I was to clear space for whatever that was, then ceremoniously unzipped the top of her school bag and pulled out a succession of boulders. She placed each with care onto the desk. Several pounds of them.

I waited. The lot looked to me like run-of-the-mill New York stones: mostly dark gray schist dappled with a bit of quartz glint.

She leaned back in her chair and waited. Clearly a reaction was warranted.

“That’s a lot of rocks!” I managed.

“Not regular rocks,” she admonished. “These have magic.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she proclaimed. “They have real magic. And gold, too. Inside.”

I tilted my head a bit to one side and nodded my interest.

She narrowed her eyes at me, weighing the merits of talking to grown ups about matters of magic and gold. “They can even make your wishes come true …”

“But … ” she regarded me before adding, a bit haughtily and perhaps to punish me for my lack of immediate awe, “you do have to believe in them, so they’ll only do the magic for me.”

 

 

For The Daily Post

Invisibly Small

tom looking for ball

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

They can hide beneath blankets

They can scoot behind doors

They can crawl under tables.

It’s no challenge at all.

They’re a lion

A princess

A pirate,

A ball.

He has friends you can’t see.

They are there

“They’re just small.”

 

 

For The Daily Post

“I Am Waiting”

mostlymommyhood.com

Photo: mostlymommyhood.com

 

“I am waiting,” she crouched with jaw ensconced by tiny fists supported on little elbows pressed into small knees.

Her eyes did not leave the circle of translucence and white suds.

“It will be a while,” her momma said. “How about we go have a snack? I think we still have some cookies left.”

“But I’m waiting,” the toddler admonished, as if the wait itself precluded any other thing from being done … not even the consumption of normally-tantrum-before-dinner-worthy cookies.

Then again, maybe this wait indeed required full attention. After all, it was her terry friends being tumbled, wet, forlorn and all alone, so far away from hug and hand.

 

 

For The Daily Post

For Photo and how-to: http://mostlymommyhood.com/2012/11/17/the-friends-get-a-bath/