Let me set the scene in the kitchen tonight. I am preparing dinner. With that, of course, comes quite a bit of movement; I’m in and out of the fridge, back and forth between the sink and the counter, over to the stove. Coco is also caught up in a frenzy of activity, pulling open cabinets, dragging her Ikea plastic chair this way and that, climbing up onto the counters and down. She too is making repeated forays into the fridge. On one of her stops there she sees carrots. “A carrot! That is what I want!”
I dutifully peel one for her. “I don’t want to eat THAT,” she says pointing to the end, which I neglected to cut off. “You don’t have to,” I say, and slice off the offending part. I go back to my prep, wondering momentarily if I will develop a facial tic by bedtime. She continues on, like a small Tasmanian devil, wrestling a large-ish ice bucket out of the cabinet. She places her carrot inside, hoists it up and lugs it around, exclaiming that the carrot is almost finished cooking. I continue on, pausing every so often to survey the scene. Certain things, like Rocky and Coco taking turns licking the carrot, and Coco sitting on the ice bucket which is perched on top of the Ikea chair–why did I not see past the cuteness of that chair and recognize the menace it would become?–are cause for intervention.
During the melee, for some inexplicable reason, Coco begins calling me as Sally. “Here, Sally, here is the tea I made for you. Sally, are you making dinner, Sally? Sally, drink all your tea all up!” Also worth noting is that she has pulled her arm out of her shirt, leaving her shoulder exposed and her sleeve dangling forlornly.
Once dinner is made and we sit down, Coco decides that she isn’t really interested in eating. Instead she hauls her gigantic Winnie the Pooh to her old highchair and stuffs him in. He barely fits. His name has changed tonight too. He is now Sweetheart. She gets my tea, which is spinach in a measuring cup, and gives it to Sweatheart, who has been injured somehow. She runs to the bathroom. “Don’t worry, Sweatheart, I’m coming with a bandaid for you.” She tenderly places it right between his eyebrows.
