Today was a Mommy and Chloe day. Sometimes I forget how young she is and without my friendly baby guide telling me when to introduce new things, I assume she’s capable of driving a motorized vehicle and ultimately, we end up in a ditch.
Too cold to play outside, I decided today was the right time to introduce mini-golf. Commence eye-rolling now. We have a foam and plastic set meant for children ages ? to ? Again, until Wikipedia outlines these things, I’ll continue to fail at this guessing game.
I set up the three arching circus animals with the loop around the base for the ball to hit and roll back to us (an exercise I would soon learn was never meant to be).
Standing next to Chloe for a demonstration, she seemed eager to enjoy this bonding time and looked at me with utter delight. I shot the ball two feet ahead into the hole and celebrated with a high-five and a little dance.
Next I handed her the club. She held it over her head and whacked me in the eye, an interesting start.
Eye-patch fastened, I showed her my putting technique again and handed her the club. She sat on the floor, turned it upside down and began to chew on the foam head.
When I tried to right the club she became enraged, biting the shaft while holding eye contact with me, her toothy grip spoke volumes, “this would be your arm if I didn’t already have a club in my mouth.”
She began to swing at the carpet fibres and insisted on golfing from a seated position, never once making contact with anything resembling a ball. If anyone has ever tried to golf sitting down I don’t need to tell you, it is impossible. Stopping only to fill her pants, there was no distracting her, not even long enough to tuck the set away until she’s three? Seven?
She kicked the circus animals where the balls should have been. They didn’t see it coming. Fallen arches, broken dreams, time to move on.
We then played a game Chloe invented called “Eat it or fling it” where her hands move calmly across her high chair tray, picking up bites of food and slowly tasting her lunch, moving one item to the next. When the mood strikes, for no apparent reason, with no rhyme or reason, instead of eating the next item on the menu, she flings it clear across the room before I can pounce and stop her.
Her arms are windshield wipers and peas and carrots are the storm littering my kitchen blinds and window sills.
Sixteen months: mini-golf—needs improvement, food slinger—top of the class
