Toys

Sometimes Clara plays with her Cinderella Legos. Today, she had Cinderella's white horse drive Cinderella in her carriage up one of the play table's legs and to the Calico Critters house. Then she had Cinderella get out of the carriage and onto the horse's back. The horse galloped into the Calico Critter's house and magically leaped onto the second floor. Then Daddy Dog came out to scold her.

"Cinderelli," Clara made Daddy Dog say in a gruff voice. "There are too many horses in this ballroom!" (There is no Prince Charming in Clara's version of Cinderella, only Daddy. It's really Daddy who swings Cinderella around the ballroom and tells her how pretty she looks in her dress. Aside from his apparent disdain of livestock on the dance floor, Cinderella's Daddy also makes her feel really safe.)



"Cinderelli, let's go to the ball in the carriage," said Baby Kitty in a high, squeaky voice, appearing from around back of the Calico Critters house. The problem was Daddy Dog wanted to ride in the carriage, too. Clara turned to me for help. We managed to fit all three into the carriage, as long as Daddy Dog didn't mind riding with his face crushed into the seat beside Baby Kitty.



The ball, which took place on top of Clara's child-sized foam armchair, was apparently a family affair. Mother Rabbit appeared from somewhere, wearing her best mauve dress and starched polka-dotted apron. Baby Kitty's cradle was on-site, so she could take a nap. Also, her potty, in case of emergency. Instead of dancing, everyone ate delicious golden apples made from yellow Play-doh.



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On Monday, I went to the gym. Clara played in the gym's childcare center while I worked out. When I went to retrieve her, she wrapped her arms around my neck and said, "Mommy, there's a piece of cheese in my pants."

"Wha--? Silly girl!" I said, swinging her up to my hip. She was wearing flowered leggings. One of the legs was rolled up to her thigh. The daycare provider told me the kids had been rolling up their pants' legs because it was so warm in the room that day.

Clara squirmed and I put her back down to gather her belongings. She tugged on my pants. "Mommy, there's a piece of cheese in my pants! MOMMY! THERE IS A PIECE OF CHEESE IN MY PANTS!"

"Okay, okay," I said, wiggling my fingers between her rolled-up legging and skin. And sure enough, wedged halfway up her thigh was a partially-eaten cheese stick, the frayed plastic wrapper no doubt poking her sensitive baby skin. The cheese was warm and greasy.

"Huh," I said, remembering that I'd given her a cheese stick as a snack that morning. "I thought she ate that."

The childcare staff looked on silently.

Immediately Clara grabbed the cheese stick and would have popped it into her mouth had my quick mother reflexes not intervened. Can you imagine what the childcare staff would have thought if I'd let her gobble it up?


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When I got home from work early Saturday afternoon, Clara jumped into my arms for some kisses. Then she climbed into her booster seat.

"How 'bout some lunch, Mom?" she said. She was wearing a dress trimmed with hot pink tulle. The dress was a bit small for her and you could see the bottom of her diaper. Her hair was extra curly because it was raining outside.

"Okay, How about some pancakes with yogurt and strawberries?" I said.

"YES. Dog and kitty pancakes."

"Or how about some pancakes that are shaped like the round moon? Ooooooo, moon pancakes!" Trying to sell it to her, I waved my arms a little and waggled back and forth like a hippie woman dancing on a moon-washed night. She looked at me blankly.

"Noooo. Just dog and kitty pancakes."

The hard thing about dog and kitty pancakes is flipping them. You always lose a leg or two (the pancakes do, I mean). Today was no exception. I tried flipping the cat by jerking the frying pan up in the air and lost the top half of her head and her ears. Luckily, Clara didn't seem to notice.




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For dinner Saturday, we had tomato soup from scratch, potato salad and grilled cheese. Clara wanted to help make the potato salad, so I gave her a hard-boiled egg to peel. She took it from me gingerly, cupping it in her hands.

"This egg is different. You can whack this egg. In fact, we want you to whack it so we can take the peel off."

She whacked it against the top of the stove. It cracked open. Exhilarated, she whacked it again. And again.

"Okay, you can stop whacking it now," said Simon.

She tried to peel it, but was frustrated by the tough membrane just under the peel.

"Mommy, help me with this."

"Okay, I'll get you started."

"No, Mommy do this."

I peeled the egg.

"Mommy, I want to eat this. This egg for me!"

"But we want to put this egg in the potato salad."

"No! This my egg!"

I gave it to her because I had extra. She squeezed it too hard and the hard, round yolk came shooting out and rolled across the floor. Wilbur obliged us by gobbling it up. Clara doesn't like the yellow part, anyway.