One minute of love

Tahlia is known for telling people she loves them.

Tahlia is also known for not talking. The amount of talking that she does at her preschool is minimal. The teachers aren't worried, as they feel this is just a small problem, as long as she speaks at home, and speaks at home she does. One of the things she can often be heard telling Mommy, Daddy, Asher, or even Suki is that she loves the specific individual to whom she is speaking, or another individual about whom she is speaking. Sometimes, the person she loves is, "That one." Clarity on this is gained by observing the direction of the extended index finger pointing directly at the one on whom she is bestowing the love. The index finger is like a tiny laser of love raining love on the individual at whom the finger is pointed.

We often hear, "Mommy, I love you."
Or, "Mommy, why do I love that one?" Pointing at Asher.
Or, "Daddy, why do I love Mommy?" Said while Mommy is bathing Asher.

Or, "Daddy, I love Mommy, and Asher, and Suki, but I don't love Daddy."

Ok. So the last one isn't the same. She does love me. I mean, I think she loves me. No. She loves me. But she also loves to make me cry. I don't really cry. If I hadn't heard the progressions to the statement of "I don't love Daddy," I think I would have cried a little for real, but she went through quite a few iterations before landing on the not loving me idea.

It used to be that she didn't love Suki. Not loving Suki made sense. Suki knocked her over, ate her bunny crackers, and licked her. Honestly, many adults, for all of these reasons, don't love Suki. Tahlia would always come around, though, and after a specified period of time -- five to eleven minutes -- she would love Suki again. She decided upon the amount of time that she didn't love Suki.

With me, it is the same. She decides how long she doesn't love me for. It is always the same, however. She always doesn't love me for "two minutes."

When she states that she doesn't love Daddy, I ask her for how long.

"Two minutes."

I pretend to start crying by scrunching up my face in a grotesque manner, let forth a wail of despair.

Quickly, with in ten seconds, she smiles and says, "I love you for one minute."

"Oh good!" I'd reply and smile at her.

"Why is it good, Daddy?" She'd ask.

"Any amount of love is good from you Tahlia. I'll take one minute."

I always thought it arbitrary that she loved me for a minute. I always wanted more than just one minute, but I thought I'd take what I could get.

Tonight, I had a realization: Tahlia can't tell time. Ok, so this shouldn't have been too great a leap for me, but for some reason, I never thought about it. Therefore, I addressed it.

"Tahlia, how long is one minute?" A simple enough question, many would say self explanatory.

Standing in the bathtub, as she takes her shower, she looks at me and says, "A long time."

I smile. I want a minute to be a long time. "How long would it be if it was a short time?" I ask, intrigued by her understanding of one rotation of the clock's hands.

She ponders for a second, looking down at the foam letters that, if they were un-jumbled, would spell Tahlia, as long as the purple "V" is turned upside down and read as an "A." She looks up into my face and says, "One time."

She's right; one time is a short time. I'll take the minute.