"Do you want to climb into the car seat yourself, or would you like me to put you in?" I asked her as we left the building.
"Me do it!" she yelled, then instantly became absorbed in balancing on the concrete border of some raised flowerbeds along the sidewalk. She shot me a few coquettish looks; she was toying with my patience and she knew it. Finally, after giving her a few chances to get into the car on her own, I grabbed her and deposited her in her seat. "Me do it!" she howled. "Mommy, I want to do this!"
"Nope, you had your chance. We gotta go," I said. She wept the bitter tears of those who look back on their lives and see only regret and missed opportunities. However, her mood brightened considerably when we turned onto a main thoroughfare and passed a construction site with a bright orange porta-potty. Maybe there were new avenues of joy to be found in this lifetime.
"Mommy, I want to go potty in this potty," she said, pointing to the porta-potty.
"Sorry, no can do. But you can go potty when we get to the store," I replied.
"I want to go potty in this," she groused. I tried to think of an interesting way to explain why she couldn't, something that would sate her. Unfortunately, my lane was also merging and a white Volvo was lolly-gagging in my blind spot. Alas, my pregnancy brain cannot multitask. Clara started making a weird, high-pitched fake-crying sound. Startled, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw she was baring her teeth at her reflection in the window.
I made the turn and said, "We can't go potty in the orange potty because it's out in the sun all day, so the inside's really, really hot. And it's very stinky."
"Oh, needs a shower," Clara muttered. Then she erupted into a series of sharp, high-pitched meows. Her impression of an indignant cat.
We pulled into the store. Clara had been cuddling her stuffed dog, Floppy, in the crook of her arm since leaving daycare, so I asked if she wanted to bring him in. She didn't, but she did want to snap him into her car seat and bundle him in a blanket and fiddle interminably with his ears.
"He's the best baby I ever seen and he gettin' bigger," she said, smoothing his ears back.
I asked her again as we finally left the car if she was sure she didn't want to bring Floppy into the store. She said no.
Just inside the sliding doors, all hell broke loose. Because guess what? Clara really had wanted to bring Floppy into the store.
While we were dithering about Floppy, a little boy took the last grocery cart with a red car attached to the front. We waited a moment for another, which unfortunately also gave Clara time to arpeggio up to the highest, loudest shriek of her sobs. I was determined to ignore her crying, get in the store, get the few items we needed, and get out.
"Honey, I gave you a choice about bringing Floppy into the store while we were at the car, remember? And you said, 'No,'" I said.
"Let's go get Floppy!" she vibratto-ed.
"No, Honey. We parked way, way out in the parking lot. Mommy is tired and I don't want to go back for Floppy. We're only going to be in here for a minute. Hey, look, there's a red car cart! Here, let me put you in."
Sobbing, inconsolable sobbing. My experience thus far with Clara crying in a store is that she soon stops after we get going down an aisle, both because she is emotionally labile and also interested in what's going on around her. But today her cries only intensified. As we rounded the deli counter, an elderly lady said, "Oh, Sweetie, what's the matter? Why you cryin' poor Baby Girl?"
"I want my Floppy!" Clara sobbed from where I'd strapped her inside the red plastic car.
"Oh, is Floppy a stuffed animal?" the elderly lady asked me.
"Stuffed dog," I replied. "We had to leave him in the car."
"Oh, poor baby," said the lady. She followed us into produce. I chalked it up to the effect of Clara's pigtails and big, blue, tear-filled eyes, and so didn't get too irritated with the lady.
But then we were bottle-necked next to the bananas by an unusually large, roving herd of after-work shoppers.
Clara was still sobbing. People began to watch.
"She misses her stuffed dog, Floppy," the elderly lady explained to our spectators. "They had to leave him in the car" After a dramatic pause, presumably to let the effect of her words sink in, she continued: "I say go get Floppy!"
There were murmurs of agreement from the other shoppers: "Yeah, go get Floppy!" People nodded and looked at me expectantly.
"If you don't shut up and stop inciting the mob against me, I'm going to punt you over that pyramid of apples," I told the elderly lady. Just kidding. I didn't say anything. I just blushed really hard and swallowed. Then I parked the cart, unstrapped Clara from the plastic car attachment and put her on my hip. I wiped her tears with my fingers and walked away. She had stopped crying by the time we rounded the corner into frozen foods.
It bears mentioning that Floppy has many roles besides that of insurrectionist. He is also a potty tester, bravely sitting on a potty before Clara to make sure there's no tomfoolery (automatic flushers, super-loud suction systems, rotating hygienic plastic wrap). And this morning he briefly served as a pregnancy surrogate. Clara performed a cesarean of sorts, pretending to scoop "baby brudder" from my stomach with cupped hands (small fingernails sporting chipped polish in the hue "Verve.") She gave "baby brudder" several kisses and carefully deposited him into the outstretched, supine body of Floppy.
Oh, Floppy, if only you could carry this baby for me.
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