"Bunny, Mommy," she shouts, producing her well-worn favorite, Pat the Bunny, and opening to the first page. Her small fingers point to the words as I read. She knows what is coming and she awkwardly separates and turns the cardboard pages, eager to reach her favorite pictures.
"Peek-boo," Katie says as she lifts the small scrap of pink cloth covering the man's face. She
places her hands over her own face and imitates the story over and over again. I laugh and enthusiastically join in on the "boo" each time.
Another quick page turn and Katie is staring at her own image in a miniature tin-foil mirror.
"Do you see yourself?" I ask as she brings the book closer to her face. She nods yes and kisses her reflection.
"Such a pretty girl! Mommy's pretty little girl!" I exclaim, smiling at my daughter. Katie's broad grin tells me my praise has been accepted as she wriggles in delight at my approval. The book falls to the floor and I bend to retrieve it, holding her tightly as I do. When we are again settled, I see that the book is open to the page with a hole in it.
"Mommy's ring," Katie says as she wiggles her first finger through the hole. She tries to replace her finger with mine but, as always, finds my finger too large. Frustrated, she grabs my hand and removes the diamond band as she has done so often before, slipping it onto her tiny finger where it twirls freely. I let her keep it as she continues to flip the pages. She leans down and smells a scented page.
"Pretty flowers!" Katie squeals, mimicking the tone of voice she has heard me use when reading the story. She sniffs the page repeatedly as I count the flowers for her.
"One, two,..."
"...three, four!" Katie chimes in, shouting the last number triumphantly.
"Ow! Ow! Ow!" she cries, faking an injury as she rubs the textured illustration of the man shaving. She giggles and says, " 'Gain!" pulling the page back as I try to turn it so she can feel the beard one more time. The rhythm of my laughter matches hers as our bodies vibrate in unison. I hug her closer, savoring this mother-daughter moment.
Katie squirms slightly, impatient with my sentimental pauses and eager to reach the end of the book. Her eyelids are heavy and the first two fingers on her left hand gently brush back and forth across her lips.
"Mmmm, soft," she murmurs, her right hand caressing the artificial white fur which is glued to the rabbit's picture. I repeat the name of the book to reinforce the connection and to help her understand that what she is doing is patting the bunny. It is then I realize we have been rocking in tempo with her singsong responses. I feel her go limp in my arms, her head dropping back into the crook of my elbow.
I grab the book as it slips from her grasp and place it on the nightstand. Leaning down, I brush a kiss past her forehead.
The afternoon sun dances on the diamond ring Katie still wears, causing fiery flashes on the white bedroom ceiling. I whisper, "I love you, Honey," as I settle back in the antique oak rocker to savor nap time with my daughter.
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| Dorothy Kunhardt, 1901-1979 |
This memoir implies my reader knows this book. If you don't, stop by the book store and give it a read. Won't take you more than a few minutes, but allow yourself to enjoy its simplicity. It's timeless. Thank you, Dorothy Kunhardt.
.jpg "grandmother rocking child")
And so it goes through the generations. This was my paternal grandmother, the original Mom-Mom, Alice Fry Leister, with me in her lap. The rocking chair? The same one in which I was rocked, I rocked my children, and now, have rocked grandchildren. It's a simple rocker with an old wood "snap," once on every back and forth movement. Sometimes the older the better, and not just when talking rocking chairs.
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