It was a Friday night just before reading time when Nadia started to rap, for no reason, to no one in particular.
“I will not go to preschool.”
Okay, I thought, it was nighttime and no one was even suggesting the kid attend preschool.
“I … will not go … to preschool. I … will not go … to preschool.”
What is Nadia doing?
“I will not,” she said, crossing her arms, “go to preschool.” Stomp.
What is this about?
“I will,” she said, crossing her arms and then issuing two stomps, “not go,” one more stomp, “to preschool.”
I eyed my camera hanging on the door. If I get it, I convinced myself, she will stop.
“I,” stomp, stomp, stomp, “will,” crossed arms, “not go,” stomp, “to preschool.”
This went on for three minutes, with off beat arm crossings, stomps and occasional turns. Then she stopped and crawled into bed like nothing had happened.
I didn’t say a word about the preschool rap. What could I say? I didn’t even laugh. I mean, what was that? Was it a hissy fit, a throw down, a glimpse of her teen-age years? Who knows?