All by myself.

One recent morning, Bean hurried downstairs while I was still dragging myself out of bed.  Two minutes later, when I was halfway down the stairs, she came barreling around the corner, waving a box of Joe’s O’s in one hand and a bowl in the other.

“I did it all by myself!” she shouted.  “I got the bowl all by myself! I didn’t need any help at all!“  I asked her how she did it, and she explained with great excitement that she had gotten her stepstool, moved it in front of the cupboard, then reached into the cupboard to retrieve the bowl.

These past few mornings, she hasn’t wanted cereal.  She has wanted Trader Joe’s cereal bars.  “I will serve up breakfast all by myself, Daddy,” she has announced to P.  And although the cereal bar never actually leaves her hand, Bean insists that she needs a plate to “serve up” her breakfast, and she gets that plate all by herself.

Getting dressed?  “No, Daddy, I don’t need your help.  I can do it all by myself.”

Getting out of the car?  “All by myself.”

Making smoothies?  “I can help!  I’ll get my stool, and I can put the fruit in the blending thing all by myself.”

I’m proud of her.  But every once in awhile, I miss…helping.

This weekend, she was sick.  Nothing terrible, just a wee cold.  It has barely affected her during the day, other than a stuffy nose, but nighttime is a different story.  As soon as she crawls into bed to go to sleep, she starts coughing.  And coughing.  And choking and spluttering and coughing.

She woke up just an hour after bedtime tonight, awakened by the body-racking cough.  I slathered her with Vicks VapoRub and snuggled up in bed with her.  She drifted off to sleep, and as I tried to sneak away, she woke up just enough to say, “Will you stay here with me and dream what I dream tonight?  I don’t want to be all by myself.”

(By the way?  I asked, and apparently we’re dreaming about Rita’s tonight.)