I thought about that the other day when Christie, my two-year-old, tried relentlessly to drag her puppy from beneath the family room recliner. Mandy, our little flop-eared Maltese, had flipped a desperate somersault seeking refuge underneath the chair. But she wasn't quick enough. Just as it looked like the terrified creature might actually succeed in her efforts to avoid playing "baby" in yet another game of "house," Christie grabbed one furry hind leg and began a tug-of-war.
"Mandy doesn’t want to wear Strawberry Shortcake's nightgown," I tried to reason with my daughter. "It's too tight around the neck, and there's no place for her tail.
"My daughter looked at me with the condescending smugness of a child who knows for sure her mother was never a kid and continued without pause to dress the dog. "No, no, no, Christie!"
When Mandy began making strangled sounds, I had to intervene. Without a word, the chastened little girl released her canine prisoner and toddled off.
Moments later, I found Christie earnestly engaged in a single-minded effort to reduce my prized jade plant to a pile of tear-shaped leaves.
"No, no, no!" This time my reprimand was loud. "You'll hurt Mommy's plant!"
Startled, Christie looked up at me, one baby hand still clutching a succulent green leaf. Tears welled in her crystal eyes, glistening in momentary suspension before streaking salty dew down tender cheeks into the corners of her mouth. And then she ducked her head to hug my legs.
With a taste of remorse on my own tongue, I gathered up that tiny guileless child. Halfway through a muffled sob, she wiped her nose upon my sleeve.
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| Mandy |
