Floppy the stuffed dog: mascot of revolt

When I picked Clara up from daycare today, there were small hints of an impending storm. Throwing aside a tiny play aluminum pot, she came at me like a hurricane of lime-striped leggings and pigtails tied with sparkling pink jelly-bands. Her eyes, I noticed as I picked her up for a hug and a kiss, matched her Crocs: they were bright pink with exhaustion. She moaned as she buried her face in my neck. She shuddered wordlessly--a kind of tearless, inner weeping she employs when she wants to portray to me how rotten and unjust the world is even though I just saw her having a blast with the other kids in the play kitchenette and I know she got to do all sorts of fun things today at school.

"Do you want to climb into the car seat yourself, or would you like me to put you in?" I asked her as we left the building.

"Me do it!" she yelled, then instantly became absorbed in balancing on the concrete border of some raised flowerbeds along the sidewalk. She shot me a few coquettish looks; she was toying with my patience and she knew it. Finally, after giving her a few chances to get into the car on her own, I grabbed her and deposited her in her seat. "Me do it!" she howled. "Mommy, I want to do this!"

"Nope, you had your chance. We gotta go," I said. She wept the bitter tears of those who look back on their lives and see only regret and missed opportunities. However, her mood brightened considerably when we turned onto a main thoroughfare and passed a construction site with a bright orange porta-potty. Maybe there were new avenues of joy to be found in this lifetime.

"Mommy, I want to go potty in this potty," she said, pointing to the porta-potty.

"Sorry, no can do. But you can go potty when we get to the store," I replied.

"I want to go potty in this," she groused. I tried to think of an interesting way to explain why she couldn't, something that would sate her. Unfortunately, my lane was also merging and a white Volvo was lolly-gagging in my blind spot. Alas, my pregnancy brain cannot multitask. Clara started making a weird, high-pitched fake-crying sound. Startled, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw she was baring her teeth at her reflection in the window.

I made the turn and said, "We can't go potty in the orange potty because it's out in the sun all day, so the inside's really, really hot. And it's very stinky."

"Oh, needs a shower," Clara muttered. Then she erupted into a series of sharp, high-pitched meows. Her impression of an indignant cat.

We pulled into the store. Clara had been cuddling her stuffed dog, Floppy, in the crook of her arm since leaving daycare, so I asked if she wanted to bring him in. She didn't, but she did want to snap him into her car seat and bundle him in a blanket and fiddle interminably with his ears.

"He's the best baby I ever seen and he gettin' bigger," she said, smoothing his ears back.

I asked her again as we finally left the car if she was sure she didn't want to bring Floppy into the store. She said no.

Just inside the sliding doors, all hell broke loose. Because guess what? Clara really had wanted to bring Floppy into the store.

While we were dithering about Floppy, a little boy took the last grocery cart with a red car attached to the front. We waited a moment for another, which unfortunately also gave Clara time to arpeggio up to the highest, loudest shriek of her sobs. I was determined to ignore her crying, get in the store, get the few items we needed, and get out.

"Honey, I gave you a choice about bringing Floppy into the store while we were at the car, remember? And you said, 'No,'" I said.

"Let's go get Floppy!" she vibratto-ed.

"No, Honey. We parked way, way out in the parking lot. Mommy is tired and I don't want to go back for Floppy. We're only going to be in here for a minute. Hey, look, there's a red car cart! Here, let me put you in."

Sobbing, inconsolable sobbing. My experience thus far with Clara crying in a store is that she soon stops after we get going down an aisle, both because she is emotionally labile and also interested in what's going on around her. But today her cries only intensified. As we rounded the deli counter, an elderly lady said, "Oh, Sweetie, what's the matter? Why you cryin' poor Baby Girl?"

"I want my Floppy!" Clara sobbed from where I'd strapped her inside the red plastic car.

"Oh, is Floppy a stuffed animal?" the elderly lady asked me.

"Stuffed dog," I replied. "We had to leave him in the car."

"Oh, poor baby," said the lady. She followed us into produce. I chalked it up to the effect of Clara's pigtails and big, blue, tear-filled eyes, and so didn't get too irritated with the lady.

But then we were bottle-necked next to the bananas by an unusually large, roving herd of after-work shoppers.

Clara was still sobbing. People began to watch.

"She misses her stuffed dog, Floppy," the elderly lady explained to our spectators. "They had to leave him in the car" After a dramatic pause, presumably to let the effect of her words sink in, she continued: "I say go get Floppy!"

There were murmurs of agreement from the other shoppers: "Yeah, go get Floppy!" People nodded and looked at me expectantly.

"If you don't shut up and stop inciting the mob against me, I'm going to punt you over that pyramid of apples," I told the elderly lady. Just kidding. I didn't say anything. I just blushed really hard and swallowed. Then I parked the cart, unstrapped Clara from the plastic car attachment and put her on my hip. I wiped her tears with my fingers and walked away. She had stopped crying by the time we rounded the corner into frozen foods.



It bears mentioning that Floppy has many roles besides that of insurrectionist. He is also a potty tester, bravely sitting on a potty before Clara to make sure there's no tomfoolery (automatic flushers, super-loud suction systems, rotating hygienic plastic wrap). And this morning he briefly served as a pregnancy surrogate. Clara performed a cesarean of sorts, pretending to scoop "baby brudder" from my stomach with cupped hands (small fingernails sporting chipped polish in the hue "Verve.") She gave "baby brudder" several kisses and carefully deposited him into the outstretched, supine body of Floppy.

Oh, Floppy, if only you could carry this baby for me.

Fishes

I was walking down the hall at the local Y a few weeks ago when I saw a glass display case filled with art projects the preschool students had done. One was called a “fish print.” It was an imprint of a fish: the scales and fins were delicately rendered in red paint on white paper.

“How the HECK did a preschool kid do that?” I wondered, suddenly awash with jealousy at some grubby-faced three-year-old. There could be only one way they did it, I determined. The preschool teacher bought a fish at the store, had the kid paint one side of it and pressed it onto a piece of white construction paper.

It was the perfect idea for Simon’s birthday present. While Simon is not particularly fond of fish per se--unless they’re for eating--he does like colorful art. And this sort of thing was something Clara could help with, and would probably even enjoy. She likes fish, as a concept and as a food.

I envisioned two or three bright fish prints, tastefully framed and hung above the desk in his home office. I started thinking about what kind of fish I could use. The imprint in the hall at the Y looked as though it had been done with a larger fish, like a CATFISH, or a big TROUT, or maybe a SALMON. I imagined myself giving Clara a huge salmon, dripping with red paint, to smack against a big, white canvas. It occurred to me that the splatters of red paint flying away from the imaginary canvas--spraying the side of the fridge, say, and the tile floor--would necessarily be engorged with smelly fish oil and scales.

No matter. Good art does not always preclude stinkiness. And babies and kitchens can be cleaned.

As I thought about it more, I realized a whole one of those bigger fish might be rather expensive, and if I bought one for the fish print, I would probably feel obliged to cook it for dinner after. I imagined Clara and me trying to wash green and blue paint off the fish, me trying to explain to Simon the weird colorfulness of his dinner without spilling the beans.

It would need to be a cheap fish. Something we could throw away after.

The next time Clara and I went grocery shopping, I stopped by the seafood case and peered inside. There was the usual array of wilted, anemic aquatic life you’ll see in a typical southern Idaho supermarket: rubbery-looking scallops, floppy fillets of Dover Sole on ice, octopus tentacles desperately clutching sprigs of parsley like bridesmaids in an ill-advised wedding. Everything arranged to look as though it was plucked from the sea five minutes before.

But there, near the back, was a pile of small fish, their scales and fins and eyes intact. The sign next to them said, “Smelt.”

“That doesn’t bode well for their odor,” I muttered.

“Mommy, I want this one,” said Clara, standing on tippy-toes, nose pressed against the glass, pointing to a whole lobster.

“I have no idea how I might even cook that,” I told her. My culinary expertise runs to tuna melts and roasted vegetables. Lobster is something Gwyneth Paltrow cooks. This lobster was dead, or at least cryogenically frozen, but I remember reading somewhere that the best lobster is cooked alive, in a giant pot of boiling water. And they scream in pain as they die (although I also read somewhere that Gwyneth has an ingenius way of snapping their little necks, pre-pot, to spare them suffering. Gwyneth Paltrow: patron saint of lobster.)

I bought two Smelt for two dollars. Cheap enough to trash them after the art project.

A few mornings later, I unwrapped the Smelt on the kitchen table. Clara looked at them, dumbfounded. A whole fish in the store was one thing. A fish lying inert on our table in the morning sun was quite another.

“Those are fishes. Two fishes,” she said. She ventured a finger forward to poke one. The fish’s flesh was sort of like a Memory Foam mattress. The small indent where Clara pressed her index finger stayed for several minutes.

“Yuck,” she said, recoiling. “This is yucky.”

“Oh, it’s just fishes!” I said breezily, waving the air with my hand. Wilbur sat on his haunches, watching vigilantly, the pool of drool at his feet growing steadily.





I swabbed the side of one Smelt with green paint and pressed it onto a yellow piece of construction paper.

“Look,” I said. “We pet it and push it onto the paper-- good fishy, nice fishy-- and then we pick it up and…..voila! It leaves a print of its body on the paper.”

Clara was less impressed with the print the fish made than with the act of painting the fish itself and comforting it as she pressed it into the paper.




“It’s okay, fishy, I will give you strokes,” she whispered to each of the fish, gently petting their fins. “This is the ‘Mommy’ fish and this is the ‘Baby’ fish,” she said, pointing to each one.

When we were finished, I quickly re-wrapped the fish and tossed them into the garbage before Wilbur could get his hopes up. I gave Clara an infinitesimally small dot of Soft Scrub on each of her palms and helped her rub her hands together under the tap.

I thought I’d probably just store the prints in my jewelry drawer until I could frame them. My jewelry drawer is at the top of my chest of drawers and right next to the drawer where I keep all my maternity underwear (I’m about six-and-a-half months pregnant at this point).

Storing the fish prints in the jewelry drawer was not the best of ideas.

“For the love!” I shouted the next day when I opened my maternity underwear drawer. “Did something die in here besides my hopes to ever be a size eight again?”

It was the fish prints in the neighboring jewelry drawer, leeching their fishy goodness through the copious cotton folds of my ginormous panties. It was as though I’d replaced the lavender satchels at the bottom of the underwear drawer with Moby Dick, two days dead.

I put the prints out in the garage until I could find the time to go buy frames for them. To be continued…

Mama Cat Yoga

When I'm not pregnant, I like to practice Ashtanga yoga. Sometimes, even while pregnant, if I'm feeling particularly energetic, I like to practice some Ashtanga. (Ashtanga is a more athletic type of yoga, where you breathe through your nose while you move into and out of poses.) Some people do Ashtanga all the way through their pregnancy. In my opinion, those people are CRAZY. In my pregnant state, I can't do very much Ashtanga because some of the major poses give me heartburn. Also, as my belly grows bigger and bigger, it is increasingly hard to stand on one leg and put the other ankle up behind my head, my hands gently touching in prayer at my heart center. Just kidding. (I can't do that pose even when I'm not pregnant.)

There is another reason why I don't practice Ashtanga yoga very much in my present state: the only conceivable way to complete the poses at home without interruption is to pretend to be a cat while doing them.

I'll explain:

At nearly two-and-a-half, Clara has hit a developmental stage rich in imaginative play. She'll run around the playroom pretending to be Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. In the bath, she'll be a fish or a swimmer stuck at sea, gulping air, wagging her head back and forth and desperately thrashing about to survive pretend killer waves. She even pretends to be me sometimes, scrubbing out the kitchen sink (standing on a chair to reach it), and muttering about "germies."

Mostly though, Clara pretends to be a "baby kitty." She has herds of imaginary cats she talks to during nap-time. She often prefers to make a "cat nest" from her blankets rather than lying under them, and sometimes she even drops to all fours on the city sidewalk and starts meowing.

From me, Clara demands a certain collusion in her kitty reality. Well, she doesn't quite demand it, but if I participate in her version of reality, I can complete whichever tasks I wish with minimal interruption. Which is why I often find myself crouching on the floor, folding laundry with my "paws," and mewling intermittently (Mama cats don't have opposable thumbs, therefore I must weld my fingers together and manipulate towels, underwear and T-shirts with my wrists. And I must put the clean, unfolded laundry down on the carpet because, what cat do you know can fold laundry while standing on her hind legs?)

And yesterday I found myself at the top of my yoga mat, chanting not the "Ohmmmmmmm" to the opening Ashtanga mantra, but a "Mee-oooowww." "Meow" does lend itself to that kind of chanting, I have to confess, because it's rich in vowels.

Grumpy Cat

One day last week, I decided Clara and I would make a collage. We used a People magazine and Family Circle. Clara only found two pictures that she really liked. The first was a little dog licking its chops. The picture came from a dog food ad. The second was a cat from a People feature about unusual animals. The cat's name is Grumpy Cat, and she is an internet sensation. She also illustrates perfectly my mood of the last week or so. The disgruntled expression. The eyes that are not amused. The puffy cheeks and jowls (apparently Grumpy Cat is also Chubby Cat. At least I have an excuse: I'm pregnant.)





At the park on Wednesday, Clara wanted me to give her underdogs. I've been doing the underdogs throughout my pregnancy: grasping the back of Clara's kiddie swing, thundering across the beauty bark, heaving her little body skyward. I move much slower and jerkier than the swing, and when I release it at the top of the arc, it is always with my last wheezing, pain-wrought harrumph, a moan sent heaven-ward, the final plea for deliverance.

But on Wednesday, at five and a half months pregnant, I decided I just couldn't do it anymore. My belly has popped in the last couple weeks. On top of which, Wilbur ran off at the dog park last Sunday and chasing him strained some of the round ligaments in my groin.

Even just looking at the swings, I could feel my face scowling in pain and annoyance.

"Mommy, pleeeeassseee do under-doggie," Clara begged after I told her I couldn't.

"I can't, my belly hurts. The baby in my belly is getting too big," I said. "But I will just push you."

Clara thought about this. "Okay, Mommy. I will take the baby out your belly. You...he... just wait patiently. Awight? He be patient. Then do underdogs! Then okay, okay! I put him back in." She cupped her palms as if she were holding a tiny baby and pretended to kiss him.

"If only it were that simple," I sighed.

Due to my exhausted state, I only planned for us to stay at the park for a half hour or so. But when I tried to put Clara back into her carseat, she burst into tears. It was a gloriously beautiful day outside.

"Okay," I said, feeling the acid solution of mother guilt wash over me. "Do you want to see a duck pond?"

We walked to the pond behind Camel's Back hill. Clara crouched on the bank, dipping her toes in the water.






"Hey, duck! Here, duckie! I have a bone for you!" she called. Understandably, no ducks appeared.





On the way back to our car, Clara took a detour up a sandbank. She came barreling down, lost her balance and fell on her face. She wasn't hurt; she stood up and smiled at me, her teeth and lips coated with sand.

"Spit," I instructed, handing her her sippy cup to rinse out her mouth.

Back on the trail, she walked a few dozen yards and then crouched in the dirt. Her legs and skirt were filthy, and little crescents of mud outlined the corners of her mouth.

"Mommy, my lips are tired," she moaned.

"I think maybe your legs are tired and your lips are dirty," I suggested.

"Mommy, I need huggie."

"Okay, I will carry you to the next shade, okay?"

I wiped her mouth and gave her a drink. She rested in my arms, limp and sweaty. Her sippie cup made strange wheezing sounds while she drank noisily from it, and she sighed with extra gusto, as if she had just crossed the Sahara.

My hips hurt. My arms were tired. To keep myself moving, I pretended I was a pregnant homesteader, out on the prairie, pushing the plow because my husband had lockjaw and Pa was feeling poorly, too. If I could just make it to the end of the row, there would be a big cool jug of water, sweetened with molasses. (Though in retrospect, that sounds kind of gross.)


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My grumpiness hit new lows yesterday, when I could not even muster the energy to speak much in the car on the way to work. My pregnant body buzzing with hormones, I hadn't been able to fall asleep until about 1:30 the night before. And then Clara woke at 3:40 am, hollering because she couldn't find her sippie cup in the tangle of blankets on her bed. I'd gone in to soothe her and find her sippie cup, but it eluded me, too. So I had to go downstairs and wash one. It wasn't the one she wanted, and she was so distressed and disoriented with sleep I finally went back down and found the one she was asking for.

"Mommy, why not talking?" Clara asked from her carseat. "Mommy, talk to Clara!"

"I'm sorry, Clara. Mommy is feeling really, really tired today. And when I feel really, really tired, it makes me grumpy. And when I'm grumpy, I don't like to talk. But it's not your fault. I just feel tired because growing a baby in my tummy is hard work."

"Oh, Mommy. Just need a Band-aid."

"A Band-aid? But where shall I put it?"

"Ummmm...on your belly!" And she smiled winsomely.

Things That Keep Me Awake At Night (Besides Wilbur's Farts)

On Friday, I sat on the toilet seat with Clara clamped firmly between my knees, struggling to coax her hair into braids. She discovered that, with her armpits hooked around my quads, she could lift her feet up and pedal the air. This meant the flaccid, relaxin hormone-devastated regions of my inner thighs had to suddenly clench to keep her from falling. There had to be a better way. I started rapid-firing questions at her (toddlers can't simultaneously make mischief and answer questions).

"Hey, what friends did you play with this week? Did you play with Miles? What about Hendrix?"

"Yes. And Daddy. And Hazel and Florida."

"You mean Flora."

"Yes, and also Florida."

"Florida is not a person. It's the place where Grammy and Popi live."

"Me and Florida color together. And we play play-doh."

"Those are things you did with Flora. Hey, did you know Flora and Hazel are sisters? What does it mean to be a sister, do you think?"

"Ummmmm....same mommy, two different mans."



Now, where did she get that? Was it just the random firing of toddler neurons? With a baby on the way, Simon and I have been trying to help her understand the abstract concept of family, but, "two different mans"? It could be she knows some blended families, or half-siblings, in daycare. Or maybe they taught a lesson about different kinds of families in daycare?

"Is there something I should know?" Simon asked with me mock suspicion.

Clara's statement does show a measure of progress with respect to the concept of sibling-hood. Over the months, her understanding has evolved from complete ignorance and/or denial (blank stares), to anthropomorphism ("There's a baby kitty in your tummy, Mommy") to the anger stage of grief: "I don't want a baby brudder!!"

Marriage is another area where Clara's understanding of family seems to be evolving.

On Saturday, as I was making breakfast, I heard a sound behind me. I turned and there was Simon, draped from head to toe in the big golden, velour blanket we keep on our bed. It completely swathed his head, and his be-spectacled face stared out at me regretfully. Behind him came Clara, tiny and impertinent in Dora the Explorer jammies, employing the swagger she uses when she's being ridiculously bossy.

"Daddy is getting married," she told me matter-of-factly.

"Who is he marrying?" I asked.

"Ummmmmm....me!"

Simon went on to tell me that it had all begun when Clara wrapped herself in the blanket upstairs, and said she was going to get married to Daddy.

"You can't marry me, because I'm your daddy," said Simon.

"Um, I will marry Mommy!" she replied.

"You can't marry Mommy because she's your mommy. If you decide to get married someday, it's best to marry someone not in your family. That's how marriage works," Simon explained.

Where did Clara learn the concept of marriage? Was it from watching Shrek? I suppose marriage has been in the news a lot lately, and the adults around her have been talking a lot about it. Or maybe she picked up the concept because the kids at daycare pretend to get married during playtime or something? I remember doing that with my older sister growing up (she always made me be the groom. During summertime, when we harvested corn from the garden, I scotch-taped corn silk to my chin to make it look like a beard).



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Lately, when I think about having another baby in the house, I hear the bells of doom. Not because of the sleep deprivation or copious quantities of poop I will be dealing with every day, but because my first "baby," my toddler, is pretty certain that I belong to her alone.

Tonight at dinner, while I was attempting to exchange some remarks with Simon, Clara said, "No, Mommy! No talking."

"But I want to talk," I replied. "I'm talking with Daddy right now."

"No! No talking. Only listening to Clara."

"Okay, so I'll listen. Okay, I'm listening. Aren't you going to tell me a story or something?"

"No. Mommy tells me a story."

So I told her a story about a mommy bunny that has TWO babies, one older baby girl bunny (like Clara), and a newborn baby brother bunny (like the one currently in my stomach). The story was all about how the older baby girl helps the mommy bunny with the baby brother, and together they take him to the doctor and the park and love him and everybody is all one big happy family.

During my telling, she watched me suspiciously. Who was this baby bunny boy-child? And he was going to the same doctor as her and looking at the same fish in the fish tank in the doctor's waiting room? And he would even get a sticker after, too?! Unbelievable. Usurper.

Psychologists talk about individuation, where kids slowly form a separate identity from their parents. When I think about that word, I picture cheerleaders singing "IN-DI-VI-DU-ATE, C'mon!!" to the tune of "CE-LE-BRATE GOOD TIMES, C'mon!!" Cheerleaders, because individuation seems like kind of a hard thing to do. Maybe that's why it takes eighteen years or so.

Wait, am I the one who's supposed to help Clara individuate? The same way I'm responsible for teaching her about not picking her nose and being kind to people and saying "please" and "thank-you"? Am I remiss in my individuation teaching and now she's way behind and that's why she's so attached to me??

Or is she attached because she's two-and-a-quarter? And what's wrong with being attached? I love her.

These are the things that keep me awake at night. At the end of the day, I suppose all I can do is my best.

Toys

Sometimes Clara plays with her Cinderella Legos. Today, she had Cinderella's white horse drive Cinderella in her carriage up one of the play table's legs and to the Calico Critters house. Then she had Cinderella get out of the carriage and onto the horse's back. The horse galloped into the Calico Critter's house and magically leaped onto the second floor. Then Daddy Dog came out to scold her.

"Cinderelli," Clara made Daddy Dog say in a gruff voice. "There are too many horses in this ballroom!" (There is no Prince Charming in Clara's version of Cinderella, only Daddy. It's really Daddy who swings Cinderella around the ballroom and tells her how pretty she looks in her dress. Aside from his apparent disdain of livestock on the dance floor, Cinderella's Daddy also makes her feel really safe.)



"Cinderelli, let's go to the ball in the carriage," said Baby Kitty in a high, squeaky voice, appearing from around back of the Calico Critters house. The problem was Daddy Dog wanted to ride in the carriage, too. Clara turned to me for help. We managed to fit all three into the carriage, as long as Daddy Dog didn't mind riding with his face crushed into the seat beside Baby Kitty.



The ball, which took place on top of Clara's child-sized foam armchair, was apparently a family affair. Mother Rabbit appeared from somewhere, wearing her best mauve dress and starched polka-dotted apron. Baby Kitty's cradle was on-site, so she could take a nap. Also, her potty, in case of emergency. Instead of dancing, everyone ate delicious golden apples made from yellow Play-doh.



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On Monday, I went to the gym. Clara played in the gym's childcare center while I worked out. When I went to retrieve her, she wrapped her arms around my neck and said, "Mommy, there's a piece of cheese in my pants."

"Wha--? Silly girl!" I said, swinging her up to my hip. She was wearing flowered leggings. One of the legs was rolled up to her thigh. The daycare provider told me the kids had been rolling up their pants' legs because it was so warm in the room that day.

Clara squirmed and I put her back down to gather her belongings. She tugged on my pants. "Mommy, there's a piece of cheese in my pants! MOMMY! THERE IS A PIECE OF CHEESE IN MY PANTS!"

"Okay, okay," I said, wiggling my fingers between her rolled-up legging and skin. And sure enough, wedged halfway up her thigh was a partially-eaten cheese stick, the frayed plastic wrapper no doubt poking her sensitive baby skin. The cheese was warm and greasy.

"Huh," I said, remembering that I'd given her a cheese stick as a snack that morning. "I thought she ate that."

The childcare staff looked on silently.

Immediately Clara grabbed the cheese stick and would have popped it into her mouth had my quick mother reflexes not intervened. Can you imagine what the childcare staff would have thought if I'd let her gobble it up?


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When I got home from work early Saturday afternoon, Clara jumped into my arms for some kisses. Then she climbed into her booster seat.

"How 'bout some lunch, Mom?" she said. She was wearing a dress trimmed with hot pink tulle. The dress was a bit small for her and you could see the bottom of her diaper. Her hair was extra curly because it was raining outside.

"Okay, How about some pancakes with yogurt and strawberries?" I said.

"YES. Dog and kitty pancakes."

"Or how about some pancakes that are shaped like the round moon? Ooooooo, moon pancakes!" Trying to sell it to her, I waved my arms a little and waggled back and forth like a hippie woman dancing on a moon-washed night. She looked at me blankly.

"Noooo. Just dog and kitty pancakes."

The hard thing about dog and kitty pancakes is flipping them. You always lose a leg or two (the pancakes do, I mean). Today was no exception. I tried flipping the cat by jerking the frying pan up in the air and lost the top half of her head and her ears. Luckily, Clara didn't seem to notice.




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For dinner Saturday, we had tomato soup from scratch, potato salad and grilled cheese. Clara wanted to help make the potato salad, so I gave her a hard-boiled egg to peel. She took it from me gingerly, cupping it in her hands.

"This egg is different. You can whack this egg. In fact, we want you to whack it so we can take the peel off."

She whacked it against the top of the stove. It cracked open. Exhilarated, she whacked it again. And again.

"Okay, you can stop whacking it now," said Simon.

She tried to peel it, but was frustrated by the tough membrane just under the peel.

"Mommy, help me with this."

"Okay, I'll get you started."

"No, Mommy do this."

I peeled the egg.

"Mommy, I want to eat this. This egg for me!"

"But we want to put this egg in the potato salad."

"No! This my egg!"

I gave it to her because I had extra. She squeezed it too hard and the hard, round yolk came shooting out and rolled across the floor. Wilbur obliged us by gobbling it up. Clara doesn't like the yellow part, anyway.

Breakfast Conversation

This morning, as I was making myself Cream of Wheat, Clara pulled herself up onto a dining room chair. As usual, it was not a graceful display of skill. There was grunting, lots of mouth-breathing, and chubby little toddler legs furiously pedaling the air.

When she got to standing, she found one of my library books, called Vacant Possession. Fortuitously for her, her tray of oil crayons--the one she got from her friend Evie for her birthday--was at hand. She carefully selected a blue crayon, long since denuded of its wrapper and covered with something grubby. Probably yogurt. She was poised to color the back of the library book when I finally intervened.

"Hey, hey, hey! We don't color on library books! You know that. Hey, aren't you hungry? Don't you want some Cheerios? Maybe we should put the book down and eat some breakfast."

She looked at me with wide, matter-of-fact eyes. "Ummmmm...I will look at it twenty minutes, okay? Just twenty minutes." She busily opened the book, her belly puffed out with importance. "This is Isabelle reading a book," she narrated, to no one in particular. The book was upside-down. "Chapter one and fourteen."

She muttered and hummed for a few minutes and then, realizing the book had no pictures of kitties or dogs or rabbits or butterflies or little boys and girls playing hopscotch--that in fact the book had absolutely no pictures at all--she put it down and sighed heavily.

"Mommy, where's my Cheerios? I need my Cheerios." She moaned and then, as I rifled through the cupboards for her special bowl and spoon, she summoned some tears. She didn't see fit to halt the lamenting of her Cheerios-less lot on life until Cheerios and milk were poured to the correct levels in her bowl, her blue spoon was laid next to the bowl, and the sippy cup was positioned at eleven o'clock.

I sat down next to her, stirring brown sugar into my Cream of Wheat.

"Mommy, what are you mixin'?" she asked cheerfully.

"Cream of Wheat. See?"

"Oh. Now I mixin'"

"Are you mixing your Cheerios?"

"No. I mixin' cream." She accidentally splashed some milk on her foot and Wilbur, ever the opportunist, quickly licked it off. She giggled. "Now Wilbur licks my other foot," she instructed. The world, whatever its injustices, must always remain symmetrical.

"Maybe if we put a Cheerio on it," I suggested, against my better judgement. Her little toes wiggled in anticipation, but Wilbur amazingly abstained from gobbling the Cheerio I balanced on the top of her foot. Finally, shooting me a wary look, he darted his tongue out and got it. Clara shrieked with laughter.

She wanted to do it again, of course. I said no. There were more tears. After a minute, she came to terms with bitter reality and, between bites of Cheerios, started singing softly.

"Hangin' on the tray, hangin' on the tray...my spoon is hangin' on the tray....Mama Bear and Daddy Bear and Baby Bear all sit down to eat."

"What are they eating?"

"Goldilocks and Tigger with Fox."

"Oh, crickey. It sounds like we've got two or three books all rolled into one. Maybe four books. We've got Goldilocks Has Chicken Pox, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Winnie the Pooh and Fox in Sox."

"Mommy, read this to me."

"We'll read after breakfast, okay?"

"Mommy, why this dog have tears on his two faces?"

"Why does Wilbur have two tears on his face?"

"Yes."

"Those aren't tears. Wilbur has allergies and sometimes his eyes fill up with water. Then the water drains down his face."

"Wilbur sad. Wilbur sad cuz his mommy give him kisses." She blows him some kisses.

"Oh, you mean Wilbur is sad and so to make him feel better his Mommy blows him some kisses. That's very nice. Are you Wilbur's mommy?"

"Yes."