Olivia and I spent this morning biking around our neighborhood. Saturday mornings are the best times for this, as we live in a (mostly) Orthodox neighborhood and consequently the Sabbath is free of cars. Well, except for that awkward moment when I race over to Nordstrom, and not knowing how to be nonchalant with my auto, honk bye-bye at my neighbors.
She chattered to me happily during the ride. And as those who know my family will atest, Olivia is most verbal when it comes to food. I was speaking to my good friend the other day when O ran in from her bedroom. "CHOCOLATE CAKE" she screamed, prompting my friend to say, "I do that sometimes!" Another phone conversation with my friend had Olivia shout "MORE PANCAKE!" Over the wires, charming. But accompanied with Olivia's little finger, pointing at your face with accusations of starvation, and it just substantiates my claim that I have birthed a diminutive dictator.
After thirty minutes pedaling in the heat, I was ready to go home; Olivia was not. The only way to be able to even wheel towards my house without her screaming was to promise her a large glass of the precious blood orange juice I had in the refridgerator. She was thrilled. My neighbors however, were not. As we slowly bicycled past the Orthodox people making their way to Synagogue, my daughter joyously pointed at each and every one of them and shouted her oncoming bounty. "Juice!" she yelled "JUICE!"
That, assuredly, is NOT what they heard.