“Momom, help,” my daughter says after struggling to open her marker.
“Momom, help,” she says, pulling the chair away from her table.
“Momom, help,” as her hands reach for the coloring book she has left on the floor.
“Momom, help.” The top of the marker has come off of the back of the marker and this cannot be allowed to stand.
“Momom, help,” as she decides she no longer wants to color that page but this one.
“Momom, help,” gesturing to the Thin Mint her father gave her that she left on the floor. (Thin Mints are the worst cookie to give a toddler. Chocolate EVERYWHERE.)
I have been home for less than 20 minutes, and I have heard “Momom, help” over two dozen times. But help I do. Because the other day I asked if she need help getting off the couch.
“No no,” she replied, shimmying backwards until her feet landed on the ground and bounding away.
So I help for as long as she’ll let me.