"I Don't Need Clothes"

   Spiderman was taken to school by an obliging Daddy, so I had a few extra morning minutes to tackle the toddler. And since she is almost potty-training, I thought a bath would be a healthy way to start the morning. The Princess didn't agree until I offered to let the Baby Doll take a bath too.
    The poor "Surface Wash Only" companion seems to be recovering well from the soap, and the scrubbing, and the lotion that were applied to her flawless plastic skin. Princess insisted Baby Doll encounter every ritual before she would submit, but she didn't complain. I thought myself very clever for finding this solution.
   But after the ablutions, I told Princess that Baby Doll needed to dry out before we put her back into her outrageously pink outfit. The squishy bits were still very damp, and as the tag said that"Air Dry" was acceptable, so I figured the doll could handle being a free spirit for a few hours.
   "All right," I said to the Princess, "let's get your clothes."
   "I need toast," she said.
   "You need clothes."
   "I don't need clothes."
   "You.... don't need clothes?"
   "Yeah."
   "Yes, you do."
   "I need toast."
   "Clothes."
   She stared, uncomprehending. She wasn't turning blue, and I needed breakfast, so I admit - I caved. I made toast. I waited until the first piece had been devoured, and I tried again.
   "You want some clothes."
   "Baby says, she needs clothes."
   "She needs to dry. You need clothes."
   "I need clothes?"
   I went for the Socratic method. "Don't you think you need clothes?"
   "Mm-mm." She shook her head and went back to her toast.


   I'm sitting here, watching the naked Princess devour toast while the naked Baby Doll lounges placidly on the table. I'm not up to chasing her around with pants because I haven't had my coffee, and frankly, I still haven't decided if I this is a hill I want to die on. She's almost three, anyway, and I'd hate to squash her budding what's-it-creative-psycho-babble-thingey.
   Or I'm just a coward.
 

 

    I hope the Baby Doll dries out soon.

 

References by Innocents

Daniel: "-so the big meeting at work is shuffling the departments-"
Annie: "Daddy. Daddy-daddy. Daddy?"
Daniel: "-and they won't make a final decision until next month-"
Annie: "Daddy. Hey. Daddy."
Erin: "So you'll be working with data instead of financial products?"
Annie: "DADDY."
Daniel: "Probably. I mean, the decision -"
Annie: "Daddy? Daddy-Daddy-Daddy-"
Erin: "Annie! Do not interrupt!"
Daniel: "What is it, little girl?"

Annie: "Daddy! Excuse me! I burped!"



Not a joke. That's how it happened. It's a wonderful life.

Moving

Moving is like that riddle your teacher wrote on the board in third grade:
    You have a fox, a goose, and a sack of grain. You must transport them across the river, but there is only room for one in the boat with you. The goose cannot be left with the grain. The fox cannot be left with the goose. The river is rising, so hurry up and think of something clever or you'll all drown.

   At least, that's how I remember it.
   I'm pretty sure that my first comment to the teacher was: "The goose can swim."
   "It doesn't work that way."
   "Why not?"
   "Because. It's a riddle."
 
   Which doesn't even begin to cover the ethical issues involved in risking human life during a flash flood to offer a probably unwanted boat tour to a wild fox. Take the grain and bolt for high ground.
 
    Anyway, moving feels like that. Moving a household with two cats and two small children feels like the boat is sinking, the river is lava, the fox is allergic to wheat gluten, and the goose has a written project due on Monday.
    I mention all of this because... I hate moving.
    The silence of the past weeks has been almost entirely due to the mounds of boxes and bubble wrap that have consumed our lives. I pleaded with my husband to let me burn it all and start fresh, but he insisted I pack. So I packed, and we were blessed with loving friends, and the mountains of Shtuff were lugged from the Charlotte home to the new Davidson home.
    "That's a lot of work," you might think, "just to move twenty miles."
   But if you've never driven I-77, north or south, between the hours of - you know what? It doesn't matter what time - then you've never experienced hell. And my darling husband has commuted for three years through the corridors of Hades. I'd had enough. So here we are, moved at last, excavating our beloved belongings and all the other random detritus that falls into a box.
   And the new digs are totally worth it. My husband comes home for lunch, the new studio space is bigger, and my son informed me yesterday that, "I love our new house, Mommy. I love having a room with my sister." Melt.
   
    We're officially moved, waiting for the old place to sell, and renting out our happy days here in Davidson. You may drop by for tea if you care to,  but  you might have to step over a box. Or two. Or just duck this way, step over that, careful of - here. Sit here. And I'll make you a cup of tea when I find a clean mug.