Eating fish while perched in a puddle

     This afternoon we went shopping at Home Depot, a tricky endeavor with a toddler under the best of circumstances.  Today, though, Clara was fighting a cold, making her more fractious than usual.  She has also lately reached a weird sort of emotional dichotomy: she very much wants her independence, but she also really, really wants to be held. It gives me whiplash.
     When we got to the store, she raced down aisles filled with bolts and washers and poplar planks and lighting fixtures, the waist band of her hot-pink tulle skirt riding up her tummy, her diaper clearly sagging in the black leggings underneath. She grabbed a coiled doorstop from a bin, pretended to sleep on top of some washing machines (with Simon supervising, of course), and debated pulling the blooms off some exotic-looking houseplants.
     After an hour spent shopping in the most inefficient way possible, we decided to ditch and go get lunch.
     We went to McGrath's Fish House because Simon and I feel Clara should eat as much fish as possible for Omega-3 fatty acids (they're supposed to be really good for your brain, and there's a lot of 'em in fish).  Clara was delighted with the kid's cup the waiter brought her.  It had a lid and a straw.  Very prudent design.  Except the straw hole was not totally sealed (I found myself thinking of the caulking aisle at Home Depot).  This meant that, instead of quickly making a huge mess, Clara could make a huge mess over the course of the next half hour or so.
     Which is exactly what happened.
     "Mess," she said sadly, after several enthusiastic attempts to drink from the cup had caused most of the water to dribble out the straw hole and onto the booth where I sat with her.
     Simon looked at her seriously.
     "Why is there a mess?  Who made the mess?" he asked.
     She thought for a moment.
     "Daddy," she said, pointing to him.
     "No, I didn't make the mess."
     "Mommy."
     "Mommy didn't make the mess either."
     She thought for another moment, and then her face turned very grave.
     "'Bur," she said, nearly shaking her head in disgust.
     "How could Wilbur the dog have made this mess?" I asked. "He isn't even here."
     She smiled.  Yes, okay, she knew I was right.  She sighed.
     "Baby," she finally said, pointing to herself.
     "Yes, that's right," we praised her, and she seemed to squirm under the strangeness of this new feeling: sheepishness.  It made me want to kiss her cheeks.