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."