Today Clara woke me by yelling, "Mommy, I need you!" over and over. If I don't go get her out of her crib right away, she usually starts to jump on her crib mattress. You can hear the, "Thunk, thunk, thunk," all over the house.
Her hair was a perfect replica of the satellite image for Hurricane Sandy. Parts of it were stuck to her face with dried, crusted drool. As I picked her up she moaned, "I need my dog!" With my free arm, I grabbed her beloved stuffed dog. "I need my meow-meow," she whimpered, and I managed to also grab her sippy cup (Clara often calls her sippy cup her "meow-meow" because the first one she ever had had a picture of a cat on it). Lastly, she muttered, "I need my baby." I picked up the baby doll and wedged her head between us to keep her from falling out of my arms.
My right arm was numb-ish from the elbow down, and I hadn't yet attained my post-sleep sense of balance. I moved like Frankenstein down the hallway and down the stairs into the kitchen.
"I need a snack, Mommy! Toast! Cheerios!"
"I need a Ferrari," I said.
A strange feeling suddenly hit me in the pit of my stomach. What am I feeling? I wondered. Focus...
"No! No small tair! I want big tair! Baby sits in small tair!"
I plopped Clara down on a big chair and crammed her baby doll into the highchair across from her so she could "feed" her.
Am I hungry? Maybe. It is breakfast-time. My hand wandered to the bowlful of Halloween candy. No! Not that kind of hungry...Am I lonely? No, I just--
"Ban-ket! Ban-ket, Mommy!!"
"No, you don't need your blanket while you eat breakfast," I intoned, struggling to get the toaster out of the cupboard.
"No, no toast! Apple! No!! Not this apple! No apple pieces!! Big apple. Mommy, huggie! Huggies, Mommy!!"
It was like being pecked to death by a baby chick.
"Clara, I can't give you huggies and put the toaster away and wash your apple all at the same time!" I said. Then, remembering Simon's sage advice from the night before, I skillfully averted a tantrum by amending: "I will give you lots of huggies as soon as I wash your apple. Just let me get this apple washed and I will give you many huggies. And I won't cut the apple into pieces."
That satisfied her.
I gave her the whole apple, minus a sliver where her small mouth might find its initial purchase. That's the way she likes it. I reached down to hug her and she clung to me for a moment like a little monkey.
I just woke up, so I can't possibly be lonely, I continued my line of thought. Do I have to pee? No, did that already. Am I irritated? Yes, but that's normal. Hmmmm....Thirst! I'm thirsty!
I got myself a big glass of water and the fog of sleep finally began to dispel. I put two eggs on to boil and sat down across from Clara. She was taking small bites of apple, chewing it up, and spitting the skin back into the cup we use to measure Wilbur's dog food. It happened to be on the table because Simon had hurriedly fed him before leaving for work.
After a few moments, the apple looked as if it had been attacked by a tiny shark.
I'm going to boil up those eggs, and have me some bread with butter and honey, I thought excitedly. (Like many women I know, my inner voice intermittently has a Southern accent). When the eggs had finished cooking, I peeled them and got out the bread and honey.
"Mommy! I want this! Baby wants egg!"
I gave her part of the white of one of the hardboiled eggs. It was warm, and fell apart.
"Oh! Egg boke! Egg boken!"
"It's okay, you can still eat it," I said as she tried to put it back together. She put her stuffed dog next to her and covered him with a paper towel. She put a dish cloth over his head. Then she offered him a sip of water and wedged the hard boiled egg under his fabric snout.
"Mmmmmm...No. Dog eats egg. Baby no egg. Honey, I want honey an' bread," she said after a weighty pause.
"How do you ask nicely?"
"Peese! Peeeeeessse?" She smiled winsomely. She'd pulled up the tablecloth and situated Wilbur's measuring cup underneath it. Under the tablecloth, the measuring cup made a small hill, with an outline for its lip. She put the rest of her gnawed-up apple on the outline. Then she muttered and made the apple shake a little.
"Apple cookin', Mommy."
"Must be a burner under that tablecloth."
"Yes, Mommy."
Later, as we were driving down the leaf-strewn street where we went trick-or-treating last night, I said, "Hey, do you remember dressing up last night for Halloween?"
"Yes. Daddy wearing Mommy bwa."
"Wha--?" I was so surprised I almost swerved into a parked car. Simon had, in fact, gone as Lady Gaga, a decision that had necessitated wearing one of my old brassieres, as well as a corset. Clara had been underfoot, playing in her lion costume, while I strapped him into it. I certainly hadn't thought she'd been paying attention.
"Yes. Baby wants wearing Mommy bwa, too."
"Oh, Honey, you don't need to wear a bra yet. But someday you will be old enough to have bras of your own."
"Yes. I have bwas of my own."
The thought was alarmingly painful. It gave me the same choking feeling I'd had when she first started wearing underpants, about a month ago, and I knew my days of seeing her little diapered bottom running around the house were numbered. I had to remind myself we still have a solid decade until she actually needs a bra, and at least two decades until I'll allow her to date.
Tonight I kissed her little apple-firm cheeks and rejoiced in her chubby toddler thighs and gave her many, many huggies before I put her in her crib.
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