"Hey! That's Mama's," I said, wresting it from her grasp. Lucky for me, the blemish stick matched her skin tone almost exactly, so the clean-up was minimal.
"Mommy! Mai! Mai! Ma-iiiiiii!"
"Here," I said, giving her a tube of toothpaste (lid tightly screwed on).
She tossed it behind her without even looking at it. She grabbed the edges of the bathroom vanity and stood on her tippy-toes to see what treasures were waiting on the countertop. My glasses: totally off-limits but incredibly interesting to wear because of the strange way they distorted the world. Nail clippers: so challenging to use it was almost mind-boggling. Yet she felt she could almost do it, if Mommy would just quit trying to interfere.
A roll of toilet paper: Yes, she knew what this was for and where it belonged. The way it unrolled was magical. Almost like a soft, thin animal.
I saw her reaching for things and pushed everything to the back of the vanity.
She grunted her protestation and reached, reached.
The world turned blurry as I tried to get my lens to stick to my eye. I heard a slurping sound like someone enjoying their morning coffee. It was Clara. She had gotten my contact lens case and was slurping the used solution from one of the lens holders.
It was a shade worse than drinking the water in the kiddie pool at the Y. Maybe on par with sipping bath water from one of the toilet's screw caps (she'd stolen both and sequestered them in her bath toys).
"No! Yuck! Yucky!"
I took the lens case from her and opened the bathroom door.
"Go get your baby. Go get a book from your room."
She flipped her hand back at me dismissively, stuck out her tummy, and half-shimmied, half-marched from the bathroom. As if the bathroom and all its cache were suddenly old news.
She didn't go to her room. She went to my room. She wanted help onto the bed and then she laid down and pretended to sleep.
"Honk-shhhhhhhh!!!! Honk-shhhhhhhh!!!!" she faked snored loudly.
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