On the night of our Hanukkah party, I held one of my friend's newborn babies. His tiny head smelled like angels or something. Suddenly I felt little arms wrapping themselves around my leg.
"Mommy! Huggie! Please huggie!" Clara said, craning her neck to look up into my face, her peachy little cheeks smeared with rugelach filling, and thus looking even more delectable than usual.
I knew she was jealous. Love and irritation formed a spicy curry in my heart. For months, I've had to curtail my savage baby-holding appetite so Clara doesn't think her status as "pearl of my crown" has been compromised.
I squatted down so she could see the baby's scrunchy little face.
"See? It's a little baby. I'm just holding him."
"No! I me my baby! [anxiously splaying a sticky, pudgy hand across the chest of her pink poodle sweater] My mommy! [slinging her arms around my neck] This baby's mommy! [pointing to the little guy's mommy, who stood near the buffet table]."
Mother, perhaps you do not understand. You are my mommy, and as such, you are entirely my possession. This baby has his own mommy, and she is standing over there. The order of the universe is gravely tested when you insist on holding babies that are not me.
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One morning about a week later, while I was parallel parking my car, I decided to probe Clara's understanding of family relationships.
"Do you know Jenna who plays with you sometimes?" I asked, awkwardly turning partway to make sure I didn't bump the car behind. Clara had been playing in her car seat with two Pilgrims from her Little People Thanksgiving play set. The sun had just crested the buildings around us and was lighting up her hair like a halo. She bestowed a brief glance on me.
"Jenna is going to have a baby!" I finished.
Clara looked back up swiftly and scowled.
"No! My mommy and me my baby!"
"There are more mommies and babies in the world than you and I," I told her, perhaps misunderstanding her confusion.
"No! Denna no have baby. I my baby and my mommy."
Mother. Please. I am your baby. Jenna does not have a baby, as everyone knows. Why are you trying to give me to Jenna? I like Jenna, and I like to play with her. But she is not my mommy. I don't know how many times I need to tell you this, but you are my mommy. The whole world might shatter to bits if you continue to pursue this unreasonable line of logic.
"Do you want me to carry you or do you want to hold my hand in the parking lot?" I asked, unbuckling her from her car seat and setting her down on the sidewalk.
"No! No hold hand!" she shouted furiously, and would have run off if I had not grabbed the back of her coat.
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Two nights ago, Simon walked in the door from work as I was strapping Clara into her booster seat for dinner.
"Hi, Sweetie!" he said. Clara's usual response is to lavish him with hugs and kisses, but not that night.
"No!" she said, looking at him thunderously. She held her hand up as if to say, "Don't come any closer or I'll wing this spoonful of cottage cheese at you!"
"Whoa," said Simon, raising his eyebrows at me. "Did you have a good day?" he asked her.
"No Daddy! Just Mommy!" she shouted.
"Hey, Sweetie, it's not okay to yell at me," said Simon, turning to rummage through the cupboards for a snack.
"Yes," I agreed. "Daddy works hard every day so you can have cottage cheese for dinner." (Guilting: a shameless maternal indulgence)
Clara continued her dinner in tyrannical silence, but, as Simon stepped to the microwave, she gave him her classic "Daddy" look: head tilted down and slightly to the side, eyes big and fluttery, sweet smile on lips. She continued to shoot him these looks throughout her dinner, interspersing them, confusingly, with loud imprecations directed solely at him.
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Yesterday I sat down on the stairs to help Clara put her shoes on. Wilbur came trotting up the stairs and pushed against me, raising a paw slightly to show that he was both willing to shake my hand and also bare his chest for a scratch, should I be interested in giving him one.
"No, 'Bur! This is my mommy!" shouted Clara, shoving him to the side. "My mommy, 'Bur!"
"Can I tell you something, Clara?" I asked. "You are not a baby anymore."
The universe shuddered. The trees in the backyard creaked and threatened to fall. An icy breeze blew through the house as the eighties hair band The Scorpions suddenly appeared astride the stair balustrade and began to sing, "The Winds of Change."
Clara put her hands over her eyes and shook her head back and forth emphatically.
"No, no, Mommy! I'm baby!" she moaned.
"Let me finish though," I continued. "You are not a baby anymore. You are my girl. My big girl. You are my Clara, and you will always be my Clara!" And I hugged her hard.
"Say again, Mommy!" she crooned, smiling, liking the sound of "Big girl." So I said it again, and hugged her again.
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This morning as I picked up a sleepy, grouchy Clara from her crib, I said, "Good morning, Big Girl!"
"No!" she grumbled, burrowing her face into my neck. "Not Big Girl! I'm baby!"
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