of course

I can promise hilarious results if your child, already familiar with the wondrous miracle known as "cake", the spectacular fabulousness known as "cup cake", and the fluffy gift of breakfast goodness known as "pancake" becomes intensely demanding that she taste this thing you are calling a "rice cake". Go on, see what happens.



... ... ... ... ...



To be filed under More Things I never imagined myself saying:


We do not put sticks in our eyes.


Honey, stop hiding goldfish crackers in my shoes.


We do not throw crayons at peoples' heads.


Take the stick out of your eye.


Phoebe is NO WHERE NEAR YOU. Why are you telling her to Go Away?


Batteries do not belong in the bathtub.


Your eye! The stick does not go there! Take. It. OUT.



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And I present to you, this week's special moment of Of Course:

The day I posted a grand dare for us to find joy (beginning next week - stay tuned!)--- Bean started the day sneezing. She stood in the hallway, her eyes rimmed red. After each explosion, she'd bless herself. Bless you, Alice, bless you!

The afternoon I posted an exciting challenge for each of us to look for joy (beginning Monday - you should play too!)--- Bean wandered the living room with glassy eyes and a runny nose. I hoped for hay fever but cancelled playdate plans for the following day, just in case.

The evening I posted a call to arms, to search for joy (yes, next week - you know you want to play)--- Bean sat in my lap on the kitchen floor, puking her tiny little guts out into a plastic rubbermaid container (the first thing I grabbed), and I thought: Of course.

Just a bit later, this is Bean and me walking upstairs for her bath. She is making this heartwrenching moan/whine noise as we walk up each stair. I stop on the landing and sigh. "Alice, I can't understand you with that paci in your mouth. Take it out and tell me what you need."

She squinches up her eyes and makes the noise again. "Mwannnnnnnnnnnn!"

"Alice. I can't understand you."

"Mwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!!!!!!!!" She throws her hand away from me, kicks the wall.

"Honey. Stop. I can't understand what you need. Tell me, but take the paci out of your mouth." I'm crouching in front of her now, trying to control my voice and be calm.

She lifts her face to me, tear stained, snot dribbled, terrible vomity bits dotting her chin. Pulls the paci from her mouth with a smack and sighs-- oh so irritated. With a deep breath she speaks evenly, "Alice said ONE. ONE!"

(She's counting the stairs. Duh.) Of course.

And this is my moment of seeing joy, even in the yawning void that is the first moments of a fit of unknown sickness. My little girl, growing. Of course.