Mine

The other day, Peter, Mary and I were walking to the park. The top of a pine cone was sticking out of the snow. Peter picked it up and gave it to Mary.
"Do you know what this is?" Peter asked.
"Yeah!" (Her typical confident response.)
"It's a pine cone."
"Yeah. Mine cone."
"No, PINE cone. With a P."
"Mine cone."
She grabbed it and walked on.

In relatively recent news, Mary learned the word mine. Over the past couple months, she has been polishing an understanding of the possessive and with it commenced bold negotiations to claim everything in sight.

On a daily basis, Mary takes pride defining just what is Mary's.
Mary's boots. 
Mary's bed. 
Mary's book. 
Mary's potty.

And in contrast, what is Mommy's. Or Daddy's. Or Goofy's for that matter.
Mommy's boots. 
Mommy's bed.
Mommy's book.   
Mommy's potty. 

But sometimes she oversteps her bounds. Say, when I bring home presents for Bobby from my co-workers.
My piggy. 
No, that's Bobby's piggy bank. 
No mine. I hold it. 
No honey, you can't. It's breakable. 
Tears.
Hugs.
Piggy needs to go back in the box. 
No mine. 
Bye bye, Piggy. 

Or say, when Peter comes home, looking for a kiss from his obliging wife, and Mary runs over to break up the embrace.
"No mine," she says.
"Yours?," I say taken aback. "I'm not yours, honey ... I'm Daddy's too." 

As any parent of a toddler can attest, delivering an education on yours, mine and ours can be challenging. And if you're like me, you dread the first time your child uses the word 'mine' in front of her peers, pushing another little boy away from the monkey on the mural at the public library, laying claim to the place she likes to sit and read. I'm told it's a phase and part of her development and it takes time; that talking through the concept of sharing and taking turns and other kids getting in your space will eventually make the over aggressive possessive disappear. But I'm getting a little anxious.

The problem is, it's crunch time in our household. In just a couple weeks, Mary will need to take turns in a way that she has never experienced before. And I don't mean with her toys; I mean with me. Sure, she's familiar sharing me with work, and the stove, and the running trail, but generally speaking when I'm home, I'm hers. And I have to say, I'm already starting to feel bad; I already feel like there won't be enough of me to go around.

I'm afraid that I'm going to have to postpone doughnut dates, that Minnie and Goofy will go mute, that snowmen won't get built in a timely fashion, and that I won't be there in time to give a hug or dry a tear.

So we've been practicing: the word patient, the concept of frustration, and other people jumping in when a very pregnant Mommy needs a break. At this point, I'm telling myself that it will all work out, and that my big baby will quickly mature into my little helper, eager to share her world with her little brother. But nonetheless, I want her to know that even though at first it might feel like Mommy is a shared commodity, my heart and my calendar will always have a special place just for Mary. I want her to know that my love for her is endless. And I want her to know that she will always be mine as I will always be hers.

Lo.