What is it about a pair of shoes that can make a girl – well, so emotional?

I’ve never really understood having an obsession with shoes; my own collection of footwear is by no means spectacular, and I wouldn’t dream of coughing up the equivalent of a car note or mortgage payment for just a single pair of Manolos or Louboutins. (Okay, so maybe I’ve daydreamed about it once or twice. I blame Carrie Bradshaw.)

Quite comfortable with my small stature, I’m typically drawn to practical, flat-soled shoes that can get me through the day. Sure, I like a bit of embellishment here or there for some added interest (a zippered heel or a metallic finish, perhaps), but I don’t give much more thought to my shoes than that. They are but a subtle accessory meant to complement an outfit rather than steal the show. So, when Olivia recently broke down over having to throw out an old pair of shoes, I had a bit of trouble relating…

These special shoes were, to me, not really special at all – a pair of black glimmer Mary Jane TOMS that had set us back only about $35 almost two years earlier. They had long since seen better days, with their layer of “glimmer” now peeled off across the toe of each shoe, revealing just a faded matte black canvas underneath. I had trimmed the loose shreds of fabric weeks ago to help disguise their tattered appearance after Olivia had adamantly declared that they were still wearable. Most days I tried to persuade her to wear one of her several other more suitable pairs of shoes, insisting that her favorite pair was just too old, too ragged, and (due to her disdain for socks) a bit too smelly. Of course, most days it didn’t work. Then, one day…

I was browsing the girls’ shoes selection on the babyGap website when I came across a pair of black leather ballet flats with the most adorable little rabbit ears and whiskers decorating the toes. I summoned Olivia to come take a look, and she was equally smitten. As we admired photos of the bunny shoes, I laid out my proposal casually.

“I think that, maybe, when these shoes come in, we can get rid of your black sparkly shoes, and you can wear these instead. What do you think?”

“Yeah, we can do that,” she agreed enthusiastically, much to my surprise. “We can donate them.”

“Well, I don’t think we can donate them because they’re pretty banged up. We should probably just throw them away.”

“Oh, okay.”

Well, hmm…that was easy, I thought. Except that it wasn’t. Like many things in life, throwing out Olivia’s favorite shoes would prove to be much easier said than done…

When the new rabbit shoes arrived, I hoped that we could ride the wave of excitement of having found them to be a perfect fit – hooray!

“Watch how fast I can run in these shoes, Mommy!” Olivia exclaimed before sprinting up and down our hallway. “Oh, I just love these shoes!” she squealed gleefully, twirling and skipping around the living room. “They are so cute!”

“I’m glad you like them, Honey.” I watch her skip cheerfully while I empty the trash and put in a fresh, new bag. But then comes the moment of truth… “Olivia, do you want to grab your black sparkly shoes and come throw them away?”

“Yes, okay,” she answers and obediently enters the kitchen with them. But she hesitates.

“Wait. I just want to say goodbye,” she tells me.

“Oh, okay. Go ahead.”

Holding them by their Velcro straps, securely (but needlessly) fastened, she gazes lovingly upon them and says sweetly, “Bye, black sparkly shoes,” before tossing them gently into the trash. You would have thought we were flushing her pet goldfish.

“Good job, Honey,” I tell her. But I see her eyes reddening and the beginning of a frown. I know what’s coming.

“That makes me so sad,” she says as she starts to cry.

“Why?” I ask softly.

“Because I love them so much,” she manages to answer before bursting into tears.

“Oh, Honey. I know how much you love them. Look, we’re going to buy you another pair just like them that aren’t all torn up, okay?”

“Okay,” is her tearful reply.

“Will it make you feel better if we keep the old ones until the new ones come in?”

“Yeah.” She nods, wiping away tears.

“Okay. Let’s put them in their little box right here in a safe place, and you can say goodbye to them when the new ones get here.”

“Okay. We can do that.”

Comforted by the thought of having a bit more time with her favorite shoes, she immediately began to calm down. When she got distracted by an episode of “Sofia the First,” I decided to snap a photo of these beloved shoes – for no apparent reason. But as I looked upon these small, torn, faded little conglomerations of rubber, canvas, and other various materials that had so dutifully protected my little girl’s feet for nearly half of her young life, I, too, found myself getting a bit emotional.

I remembered the first time she wore them – Halloween, two years ago. She was barely more than age 2. It was her first year of trick-or-treating, and I had dressed her as Veruca Salt – golden ticket and all. I thought these black sparkly Mary Janes would be perfect for her costume and that she could get plenty of everyday wear out of them afterward. (I was certainly right about the latter.) I had misjudged the sizing a little, though, so they were a bit big on her, even with her thick, white tights. But she didn’t complain; she was so excited for her first trick-or-treating adventure that she didn’t mind the occasional stumble. Of course, I was right alongside her, holding her hand to keep her upright.

After Halloween, the shoes got a bit of a break until they fit her more snugly. But once they fit her well enough that she could run in them, they became her everyday favorites. She loved to fasten the Velcro strap herself, carefully feeding it through the metal loop and pulling it back across the top of her foot to secure it firmly. It made her feel like such a big girl, and she was so proud to be able to do this by herself.

I looked upon these little memory keepers, that I had once so casually condemned, now with a sudden new appreciation. I adjusted their positioning on the piano bench for the benefit of better lighting and snapped my photo. I then carefully returned them to their box and put them away in a safe place…where they could remain for just a little while longer…until we are both ready to bid them farewell.

(September 2017)

***

(October 23, 2016)

When my husband and I first became parents, the advice we received most often was simply, “Enjoy it; they grow up fast.”

How very true.

Suddenly, I have a preschooler – A PRESCHOOLER! – a three-going on fourteen-year-old. She actually keeps referring to her next birthday as her fourteenth birthday. Nope. Hold up. Not quite, Sweetheart. In some ways, Olivia is well aware of her youth and its limitations. She thinks it’s hysterical when I jokingly ask her if she can take a few chores off of my plate, like doing the laundry, grocery shopping and paying the bills.

“No, I can’t!” she giggles. “I’m just a little kid!”

On the other hand, she has a very strong sense of self and an opinion on everything, which she will gladly share with you, whether or not she is asked to do so. And you would do well to not disagree with her. I think she may be priming herself for success on a debate team. I find her steadfast obstinacy quite amusing and yet, at times, exhausting. Specifically, I am looking forward to the days of school uniforms because it will bring an end to our early morning fuss-capades involving the seven variations of outfits that are all perfectly acceptable on the hanger but somehow manage to become a kaleidoscope of discomfort once on her body. Her complaints, among others:

“It’s itching my tummy!”
“These pants are too long!”
“These pants are too short!”
“Pink is NOT my favorite anymore!”
“I don’t like blue, Mommy!”
“These sleeves are poking out!”
“I don’t want to wear those shoes! I want to donate them.”
“Pink and gray are NOT good together.”

So, yeah, bring on the uniforms.

***

Long after she was too old for this, Olivia allowed us to rock her before bedtime every night, a ritual that I wanted to hold onto for as long as possible. We would spend 15 or so minutes lulling our toddler to sleep and then gently place her into bed. But one night, after only a minute or two of rocking, she whispered softly, “Mommy, I’m ready to get in my bed.” I helped her off of my lap and onto her feet. She then walked over to her bed and climbed in, and I pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

“Good night, Baby. I love you.”

“I love you, Mommy.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, Mommy.”

“Buenos noches.”

“Buenos noches.”

It was the same every night. And then one day, out of the blue…

“Mommy, don’t call me Baby,” she instructed. “I’m not a baby anymore, so you can’t call me Baby. Just Honey and Sweet Pea.”

“Oh, okay.” I was surprised. “And Sugarplum?”

“Yeah, and Sugarplum.”

As you can imagine, a three-year-old habit is not so easy to break. So over the next two days, I probably called her “Baby” at least 20 times, and it never went unnoticed. Each time, she would remind me politely, but with a hint of frustration in her tone, “Mom-my! I said don’t call me Baby.” And I would answer the same way every time, “I’m sorry, Honey. I keep forgetting. I’ll try harder.”

But there it is – a constant reminder, and from Olivia herself, that she is no longer a baby. She is decidedly, undeniably a big girl.

And these are the growing pains.

While I joyfully celebrate every milestone and revel in every achievement of hers, I can’t help but feel just a little bit sad to realize how truly FAST she is growing – in every way. Because with that realization comes the understanding that, as she becomes less and less dependent on me, it will naturally become easier and easier for her to put distance between us. I just hope that the distance is as narrow as possible while still allowing her to flourish as her own individual.

So, for now, if she wants to go to school as a Mardi Gras ballerina prepared for a sudden torrential downpour, so be it. After all, they grow up so fast.

Trying to explain the notion of death to a toddler is – challenging. Luckily, parents, Disney is here to help. Olivia’s first glimpse into the consequences of dying came from “The Lion King.” I don’t let Olivia stare blankly at a television; we discuss everything she watches. I use it as a learning opportunity, making sure she understands what is happening onscreen and isn’t just watching the pretty lights and colors.

When Olivia first witnesses Simba trying to arouse his father Mufasa, who has succumbed to his fatal injuries, the natural question arises:

“Mommy, why isn’t Simba’s daddy waking up?”

I consider my answer carefully before proceeding.

“Well,” I begin cautiously, “Mufasa got hurt very, very badly. And sometimes, when you get hurt really badly, it makes you go to sleep and you can’t wake up.”

Olivia ponders this. “But when he gets better, he can wake up.” Her voice rises optimistically at the end of her sentence.

“No, Baby,” I answer softly. “He can’t get better. He can’t wake up because he died.”

“He died?” she contemplates this new word.

“Yes, he died, which means that he went to sleep and can never wake up again. That’s why Simba is sad, because his daddy isn’t going to wake up. And he’s going to miss him.”

“Yeah, Simba’s sad,” she nods. Her voice is soft and quiet.

I wait before saying more, not sure how deep she wants to delve. But the arrival of Timon and Pumbaa serves as a welcome distraction, so the conversation on this issue ceases.

Olivia does not forget about it, however, a truth which becomes apparent a few days later during some imaginative play.

“Mommy! Mommy! Come quick!” she shouts from the hallway.

“What? What is it?” I exclaim.

She points down the hall and shouts, “Look! Wildebeests! They’re coming! Run!”

“Oh, no! It’s a stampede!” I join in, and we run to the safety of the guest bedroom, climbing onto the bed, out of danger of being trampled.

It isn’t long after the wildebeests begin roaming our hallway, threatening to charge at any given moment, that they claim their first victim.

“Mom-my!” I hear Olivia call.

“Yes?” I answer.

“The wildebeests got me!”

“The wildebeests? Oh, no!” I smile in amusement, walking toward the hallway, to the sound of her voice.

“Yeah, they got me,” she says. “And now I’m dying.”

I enter the hallway at that moment and see Olivia lying on the floor at the end of the hall, against the door to my bedroom.

“Oh, no. You’re dying?” I whisper as I approach her.

“Yeah, I am,” she answers weakly, squinting her eyes, feigning sleep while still trying to see my reaction.

“Oh, my sweet Olivia,” I play along. “Don’t die.”

I scoop her into my arms and am simultaneously unnerved and impressed by the way she goes limp in an attempt to emulate someone who is weak and dying. How does she know these things? I carry her to her room, where I hold her in the rocking chair and plead with her to wake up. Moments pass, and then she opens her eyes, blinking them repeatedly as though she has been asleep for hours and is trying to adjust to the light.

“You’re awake!” I exclaim joyfully, smothering her in kisses.

“Yeah,” she smiles. “I didn’t die.”

“I’m so glad!” I tell her. “Now stay away from the wildebeests.”

***

Olivia was born into a house of dogs – four big dogs, all of them very special to us, of course. But my golden retriever has always held a special place in my heart. It was just Sebastian and me before my husband even came into the picture. He was my first “baby.” When we lost Lucky, the youngest of our four canine kids, last year, I was a little bit grateful to her for helping me prepare for Sebastian’s passing, knowing that his would be the most difficult for me. Lucky’s was hard; his would be harder.

At the ripe old age of 14, Sebastian was in pretty good health. Over the past few months, however, degenerative arthritis had begun to rear its ugly head. For example, he would occasionally have trouble while standing to eat. His hind legs would slip and slide away from his body, making him struggle to maintain purchase. So I would stand behind him, placing my feet against the outside of his, providing enough resistance to keep him upright. His troubles seemed intermittent, though, and, although I recognized these as signs that the end was drawing near, I did not realize how close we were. This morning, however, it became devastatingly apparent.

When I greeted “the pups” to feed them breakfast, Sebastian was unable to stand. He sat rigidly and stared down at the bowl in front of him. When he tried to stand, with my assistance, he fell onto his belly and seemingly gave in to defeat. I let him remain there, appearing comfortable, and held his bowl within his reach, tilting it toward him for easier access. He ate every bite.

After much, much effort, I managed to help Sebastian to his feet, but it quickly became apparent that getting up wasn’t his only problem. He could barely stand or walk now and even struggled to sit up straight, preferring to lie down instead. The reality of our situation was clear.

Once we spoke to our vet and made the necessary arrangements, I began trying to prepare Olivia for the loss she was about to experience.

All day long, as we spoil Sebastian with one treat after the next (bread, yogurt and ice cubes, to name a few), Olivia and I discuss the imminence of Sebastian’s passing.

“Do you see how Sebastian is having trouble standing and walking?” I ask her. We are in the kitchen; I’m kneeling on the floor next to Sebastian, petting him.

“Yes, but why?” she asks.

I’m already tearing up. “Well, because he’s old, Honey, and his legs are hurting, so it’s hard for him to use them.”

“But why is he old?”

How do I answer that? “Well, because he’s lived a long time. He was born a long time ago.”

There is no reply, so I continue, swallowing a lump in my throat. “Sebastian is really old for a puppy, and he’s hurting,” I explain. “So his doctor is going to come and help him go to sleep so he doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Is he going to die?” she asks.

“Yes, Baby. He’s going to die.”

I am crying. She starts crying.

“That makes me sad that Sebastian is going to die,” Olivia says through her tears, walking toward me with her arms weakly outstretched.

I hold her close to me, seeking my own comfort as well, but her sadness only compounds my own. I can’t let it consume me, though; I have to be her mom. I retrieve a tissue from my pocket and dry her cheeks where the tears have run.

“Hey, you know what?” I offer encouragingly. “When Sebastian goes to sleep and dies, we are going to be so sad. But he’s not going to hurt anymore, so that’s a reason to be happy, right?”

“Yeah,” she nods, frowning. “But I don’t want him to.” Tears flow from both of us.

There are several, similar exchanges throughout the afternoon, up until the final moment, and then again afterward, until bedtime. (I will not share details of Sebastian’s passing here, but know that it was very peaceful yet very sad.) I try my best to distract Olivia, and myself, from the sadness by revisiting the past, recounting various stories about Sebastian as a puppy, which she enjoys. When I tell her that we used to bathe Sebastian in her bathtub, she is very much amused.

“What?!” she exclaims with a chuckle. “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard of!”

Before I know it, it’s Olivia’s bedtime, and I am relieved because my head is pounding from all of the crying. I am ready for this day to be over.

Sitting in the darkness, rocking Olivia while we listen to our usual bedtime soundtrack (songs from the movie “Brave”), the sadness washes over me and again my eyes fill with tears. I try to choke back my sobs but fail.

“I’m sorry, Honey,” I tell her, kissing her forehead. “Mommy’s just sad about Sebastian.”

“Why?”

“Because I love him very much and I miss him.”

Then, demonstrating her vast wisdom yet again, my not quite three-year-old reaches up to gently stroke my neck and assures me, “It’s going to be okay, Mommy. It’s going to be okay.”

And I know she’s right. It is going to be okay. But right now the sting is painful, and I’m going to allow myself to feel it. Because the sorrow I am experiencing is just proof of how great a dog Sebastian was and of how much I loved him. He was a beloved member of our family, and I miss him terribly already. But, after some time, I know that the stinging will subside and Olivia’s words will ring true.

It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.

Sebastian (February 5, 2002 – May 27, 2016)

(October 18, 2015)

Each year, I look forward to October’s arrival, when temperatures finally fall below 90, the wind starts to pick up, and I can actually enjoy being outside with the sunshine on my skin, without feeling like an all-you-can-eat buffet for the neighborhood mosquitoes.

Olivia loves the outdoors, even when it’s not so pleasant, so I relish any opportunity to actually enjoy some outdoor playtime with her (as opposed to, in August, when I’m sweating, swatting bugs away, and plotting ways to coax her back inside).

Her newest outdoor hobby is collecting acorns that have fallen from the live oaks in our front yard.

“I found a green one!” she announces, holding it high above her head. “It’s pretty.”

“It is,” I agree.

“I’m going put it with the other ones. Be right back!” she calls out excitedly.

Olivia runs over to the porch and deposits the acorn onto the table among her impressive collection of roughly 50 acorns. Some are green, others black or brown, but they all share one similarity: each is missing its hat. (Cupule, if I’m being scientific, though I suppose “hat” would be an erroneous descriptor since the cupule refers to the base of the acorn. But I digress). I quickly discover that fully intact acorns are hard to come by. The cupule appears to attach to the nut about as securely as one’s hat attaches to the head. See? There you have it. Cupule = Hat. They likely disconnect immediately upon impact with the ground, even a soft bed of grass. I make it my mission to gather as many of these rare treasures as I can find. Upon realizing my excitement over each discovery of a fully hatted acorn, Olivia invents a new game whereby she intercepts the nut and immediately de-hats it, amid my pleas for mercy, all while wearing an adorably mischievous grin.

“Look, Olivia! I found one still wearing his hat!” I dangle it by its stem and hold it out toward her. I might as well be taunting a tiger with a raw steak. She rushes toward me.

“Oh, let me see!” She takes it, grinning, and yanks off the hat. “I did it,” she teases.

“No! You little rat!” I cry out in pretend anger. As she bursts into giggles, I snatch her and playfully pull her to the ground, tickling her ribs. “Oh, I can’t believe you took his hat, you little stinker!”

We repeat this scenario several times. It never gets old.

On the return walk from one of our acorn deposit trips to the porch, we become distracted by a lovely red and yellow leaf that had found itself on the sidewalk. Olivia picks it up, marvels briefly at its beauty, and then proceeds to tear it into tens of tiny pieces. Instead of returning to the acorn collection zone, she veers off to another area of the yard and begins to examine the myriad leaves scattered across the grass. She makes her selection. It’s small, brown and crunchy, having fallen from its branch some time ago.

“I’m going to crush you, leaf,” Olivia says.

I answer on behalf of the leaf in a small, squeaky voice. “No! Don’t crush me, please!”

Olivia promptly reduces the leaf to crumbs.

I pick up another leaf, also small, brown and long since dead. “I’m just going for a walk in the grass,” I squeak, teasingly moving the leaf across the yard, toward Olivia. “Ho hum, what a lovely day.” Then I stop abruptly. “Uh-oh! There’s Olivia the Leaf-Crusher!” I squeak anxiously. “Aah!!” I make the leaf turn and run away, hurriedly hiding itself under my bent knee.

Olivia giggles as she approaches. “Come here, leaf,” she says softly. “You don’t have to be afraid. I want to play with you.”

“Oh, okay.” I bring the leaf out from hiding. She takes it and cradles it against her tummy for a few seconds and then holds it out and starts to tear it. “No! You tricked me!,” I squeak in agony.

“Yes, I did,” Olivia answers matter-of-factly.

I grab another nearby leaf and animate it like the previous one. “Oh, no! It’s Olivia the Leaf-crusher!”

“Come here, leaf. I won’t hurt you,” Olivia promises.

“Are you sure?” I ask, in my leaf voice. “I heard you tricked my friend.”

“No, I just tricked that other leaf,” she replies, genuinely.

“Oh, okay.”

Olivia keeps her word, helping her new leaf friend walk about the yard for a bit. But this leaf, too, is in a delicate state, having turned brown and lost its pliability. When Olivia accidentally tears it, she is sorry immediately. I can read the disappointment on her face. Luckily, I have an idea.

“You know what, Olivia? I bet we can fix your leaf with some tape. Do you want to try it?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers, nodding her head enthusiastically.

We go inside, and she watches as I carefully tape the leaf back together. When I’m finished, I hand it to her and declare, “It’s fixed.”

“Hooray! You fixed him!” she exclaims, prancing away with her new and improved (now adorned) leaf. “I’m sorry I broke you,” she tells it. “I’ll take good care of you.” She turns to me. “Mommy, he’s all better now! So much better now! And now I can dance with him!”

I smile back at her, glad for moments like these, when the littlest nothing can bring her such joy.

Olivia holds her leaf high in the air as she twirls around gleefully and sings, “You’re so much better now!”

***

To be a member of our household, one must love the game of football. It’s a prerequisite. Specifically, we are NFL fans. My husband has a few favorite teams to which he has connections, like the San Diego Chargers, having spent his formative years in the nearby suburbs.

In contrast, I did not become a football fan until college, during a time when the Saints were utterly abysmal. As a Louisiana girl from birth, I had nothing to connect me to any other team, so I became what my husband teasingly refers to as a cleat-chaser. For years it was the Colts, and then the last few years have been spent cheering on the Broncos. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m a Peyton Manning fan.

At age two, Olivia is already exhibiting a fondness for football. While she occasionally requests a channel change, for the most part she is perfectly content to watch it with us. As a matter of fact, the very first time she watched television from her infant bouncer seat (allowing my husband and I to enjoy a meal together), it was an episode of HBO’s “Hard Knocks.” I don’t think she was following the plot line as much as the lights and colors, but still.

I presume that Olivia will grow up to be a Saints fan (like her parents), but, for now, her favorite team is the same as her Mommy’s. And, outside of Disney characters, Olivia can recognize and identify a single celebrity figure: Peyton Manning. All season long, I could easily prompt her to belt out a cheer…

“Hey, Olivia. Go Broncos!”

“Go Broncos!” she would echo enthusiastically.

As we neared kickoff for this year’s AFC Championship, I was a bundle of nervous energy. “Olivia, I’m so excited!” I squealed, as I settled her into her high chair for lunch.

“I’m so excited, too!” she mimicked.

Throughout the game (between playtime breaks), Olivia cheered along with me. She enjoyed watching my silly celebratory dances every time something went well for Denver. Following the victory, during the next two weeks leading up to the big game, Olivia and I remained a united front against all of the naysayers. Anytime she was asked, “Olivia, who’s going to win the Super Bowl?” she would grin and reply resolutely, “The Broncos are going to win.”

On the morning of Super Bowl 50, I prepped for the event by donning my Broncos apparel – a tee shirt with “Omaha” and the number 18 across the front. But Olivia questioned my selection.

“Mommy, is that your ‘Go Broncos’ shirt?” she asked quizzically.

“Yes. See the numbers 1 and 8? And see the numbers 1 and 8 on Peyton Manning’s shirt?” I pointed to his image on the tv screen.

“Yes,” she answered, and then, touching the letters on my shirt, asked, “What is that?”

“That says Omaha. It’s what Peyton Manning says a lot when he’s calling a play.”

She examined my shirt, and I could tell she was experiencing an internal struggle. After a moment, she stated assuredly, “That’s not your ‘Go Broncos’ shirt. Where’s the one with the horse?”

Aha. I see.

“Oh, you mean this one?” I asked, as I opened a dresser drawer and retrieved the cozy Broncos shirt that I had worn for the AFC Championship, featuring the number 18 on the back and each sleeve and, Olivia’s favorite part, the team’s emblem (a horse, of course) on the front.

“Yes, you need to wear that one,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“Oh, okay. I’ll change then.”

I was not about to argue with her. I am quite superstitious and had been wondering if I should wear the shirt that had witnessed the most recent victory, the very one that led us to this momentous occasion. Olivia’s request was undoubtedly an omen, and the message was clear: change the shirt.

With the Super Bowl ending long after Olivia’s bedtime, unfortunately, she could not celebrate the win with me as it happened. But, as I kissed her goodnight, I whispered in her ear that I would let her know the outcome in the morning. As promised, when I greeted her at her bed the next morning (while working to rescue her from an uncomfortably twisted pajama sleeve, which had soured her mood), I smiled at her and said softly, “Olivia, guess what?”

“What, mommy?” she whispered expectantly.

I beam at her. “The Broncos won the Super Bowl!”

Now, Olivia is not a morning person (nor am I, to be fair), but I expected at least a modicum of enthusiasm. After all, this was the team we had rooted for all season long. Instead of sharing in my joy, she collapsed dramatically onto her mattress, covered her face with her hands, and cried, “No, they didn’t win!”

Hmm. Okay. So, perhaps she’s not quite the diehard fan I had hoped her to be. She is only two, after all. We still have plenty of time to groom her.

*Go Broncos! (for as long as Peyton Manning is on the roster)

The phrase “like a kid in a candy store” finally has real meaning to me, although, in our case, it’s a candy AND toy store aptly named Giggles. After months of my eagerly anticipating the store’s opening, excited to take Olivia and let her explore all it had to offer, on opening day, my husband asks, “Olivia, do you want to go to a new toy store called Giggles?”

She answers exuberantly, “Yes, I want to do that!”

Never before has she visited a toy store, so she really has no reference point from which to derive her excitement, though I suppose it’s not hard to figure out that a toy store is just that – a store full of toys. I’m sure her imagination is able to fill in the blanks.

On the drive, she maintains her enthusiasm level, frequently exclaiming, “We’re going to Giggles! We’re almost there!”

For her first experience in a toy store, Giggles certainly does not disappoint.

“Here we are!” I announce, as we reach the storefront.

“Here we are!” Olivia repeats, mimicking my singsong tone.

I stand behind her as I pull open the door, allowing her to enter ahead of me. I expect her to dash inside, but, instead, she crosses the threshold very slowly, and I have to guide her first few steps. I can only assume that her eyes are busy darting around the store, taking in the sights, so she has to walk extra cautiously so as not to trip.

After a quick survey of her surroundings, she turns her gaze to a table of goodies just a few steps in front of us. She walks over to the table and picks up a foot-long alligator toy securely wrapped in plastic. Nearby, another alligator is submerged in a large tub of water, having expanded about triple the size of its packaged twin. Olivia gives me the plastic-wrapped reptile and says, “Want Mommy open this for me?”

Olivia is new to the shopping game (aside from the grocery store), so I have to explain the rules to her.

“Well, we can’t open it right now,” I say. “We have to buy it first and then take it home to open it.”

I think the notion of going home is enough to dissuade her from asking to open it again. Instead, she moves on to a bucket of colorful umbrellas. Soon she is holding five umbrellas at once. She offers one to me and asks, “Want Mommy to open it?”

“No, we can’t open it, but look up there. See the umbrella hanging from the ceiling? Is that the one you want?” I point to one that is decidedly girly, with pink flowers and a giant ladybug.

“Yes, I do!”

“Okay, let’s see.” I quickly study the colors and pattern of the canopy and note the color of the handle. I then retrieve the matching umbrella from the bucket and hand it to Olivia. “There you go. Now let’s go see what’s over here.”

I guide her along a walkway where she discovers baskets of assorted bouncy balls.

“Look at that smiley face, Mommy!” she says, holding up a bright yellow emoji-inspired ball. She examines a few of the different emoji expressions before moving on to an adjacent basket containing balls that make noise when they bounce. These are a big hit. (Until later, when I interfere with Olivia’s plan to disperse these balls all over the store. As I scramble to clean up her mess, she erupts into tears, crying, “I don’t want those balls back in the basket!” Luckily, this tantrum is short-lived. Phew!)

After meeting an adorable little pirate doll that holds “tooth treasure,” we round a corner to find a set of tools in the prettiest pastel shades of purple and green. Olivia takes to them right away. Having inherited her cousin’s workbench and tools, she is familiar with these items, but these are decidedly better – because they’re girly, of course!

“I need to hammer something,” she says purposefully, removing a hammer and bolt from the kit.

“Oh, okay,” I reply encouragingly, and I watch as she proceeds to hammer the floor.

Next, she spies a scooter parked teasingly nearby. This is not a sit-and-ride scooter; it’s the kind that you stand on – like a skateboard with handlebars.

“Oh, I want to ride the scooter,” she says.

“Honey, that’s a big kid scooter. You’re not quite ready to ride that yet.”

“I want to! I want to!” she begs excitedly.

I give in. Why not? “Okay, but Mommy has to help you.” I ready the scooter. “Hold on right here first and then step on.”

She follows my direction, and I guide her around a small area of the store for a quick ride. Surprisingly, she is not upset when the ride is over, but I quickly realize that this is only because another exciting toy has caught her eye: a doll stroller. She pushes the bright pink polka-dot doll stroller all around the store for a couple of minutes before returning to me and requesting my participation with the second stroller.

“I can push this one, and want Mommy push that one,” she directs me.

Of course, I obey. After a brief tandem stroll, we continue our Giggles exploration and find an iridescent, spiked ball that lights up when bounced. Olivia asks, “Want Mommy take off the tag?”

We then spend quite a bit of time playing with an indestructible tea set made of recycled plastic before discovering a round, multilevel display shelf featuring an assortment of soft, cuddly animals from which Olivia selects two deer.

“Look! A mama deer and a baby deer!” she says and then touches their noses together.

“Aww. Are they kissing?” I ask.

“Yes, they are,” she replies with a smile.

“That’s very sweet, Honey.”

Next we visit the craft room, with Olivia scribbling one of her Pollock-inspired pieces, and I suddenly realize that lunchtime is approaching and we have been in the store for nearly two hours. Time to make our final selections and head home.

I manage to wait in line and complete my purchase while Olivia plays within my view. I show her the bag and say, “Come on, Olivia. It’s time to go home and play with our new toys.”

The mystery toy bag piques her curiosity enough to enable me to get her out of the door calmly and willingly. I dangle the bag in front of her as though it is a carrot on a stick and she is my unwitting little mule. But as we approach the car, reality sets in and she woefully whines, “I want to go back to Giggles again.”

“We’ll go back another day,” I assure her. “But, right now, we have to go home and eat lunch and see Daddy.”

“No, I don’t want to eat lunch. I don’t want to get in my car seat.” She continues to whine as I adjust her straps and fasten her seat buckle.

“Do you want to see the new toy Mommy bought you?” I ask.

Instant silence. No more tears. She is grinning now. Never underestimate the power of distraction. 

Seated next to her, I reach into the Giggles bag and pull out a box of 3 wooden petit fours, each beautifully painted and adorned with a small, fruity embellishment. Her grin widens.

“I want those cupcakes!” Olivia shouts excitedly.

“Sure. You can hold one on the way home.” I open the box and take out a round “cupcake” with a tiny strawberry on top. I hand it to her and she pretends to take a bite.

“It’s very tasty,” she declares.

***

When we get home, after unboxing the other 2 petit fours, I unveil the day’s other purchase: a Jo Witek book titled In My Heart – A Book of Feelings. Olivia and I are both instant fans. Its clever explanations of the various emotions are an adorable and effective way to introduce these concepts to children. The book concludes with the narrator, a charming little girl, saying, “My heart can feel so many different feelings…How does your heart feel?”

As I read this aloud to Olivia, she answers, “Good.”

“Your heart feels good?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies.

“I’m so glad your heart feels good.” I wrap my arms around her and give her a gentle squeeze.

***

Later, at bedtime, Olivia fondly recalls the events of the day.

“It was fun to go to Giggles,” she tells me.

“I know; it was,” I say. “We’ll go back another time.”

“Okay, we will do that,” she says.

***

As we greet each other the next morning, one of the first things Olivia says to me is, “It was fun to go to Giggles!”

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” I agree.

“We can go back to Giggles again.” She nods as she says this, seeking confirmation. She looks at me with an expectant grin, her eyes alit with excitement, like a kid in a candy store.

Well, how can I refuse?

“Okay,” I announce, “let’s go.”

“Okay! Let’s go to Giggles!”

A few weeks ago, Olivia woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I usually awaken to the sound of her chatting with Peter Rabbit or Lucy the Mouse, her two most frequent bedfellows, while still lying in her crib, occasionally playfully drumming on the wooden slats with her feet. On this particular morning, I woke to her screaming.

She wasn’t reacting to pain or fear; I could tell this right away. But she was certainly bothered by something. I open my right eye to glimpse the video monitor stationed on my nightstand; my left eye remains closed, buried in my pillow, refusing to acknowledge the start of a new day. I stretch to reach the monitor and press the intercom button.

“I’ll be right there, Honey. I just have to put in my contacts.”

“No, Mama can’t put in her contacts!” she yells back at me.

Uh-oh. I hold the monitor steady and squint at her image on the tiny screen. I assume that she has found herself in some sort of uncomfortable predicament. Perhaps a leg somehow got caught between two slats, or maybe she tried to undress herself and got an arm stuck in its sleeve. I imagine a myriad of ways in which Olivia might have gotten herself in a jam that required my immediate attention, but she appears to be fine. I squint a little harder to make sure I’m not missing something. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. Yet, there she is, standing in her crib, holding onto the railing and stomping her foot. Oh, and screaming. Let’s not forget the screaming. What on Earth?

“Olivia,” I begin, in the softest, most soothing tone I am capable of producing. “I’m coming to get you, Baby. I just have to put my contacts in first. Okay?”

The response is just more screaming.

I follow through on my promise. When I enter her room, she is red-faced and teary-eyed and her nose is a bit runny. As soon as she sees me, she quiets her screams and begins to calm down. She reaches her arms out toward me, an unspoken plea for me to pick her up and comfort her. But when I grab a tissue to clean her nose first, she turns away and shouts, “No, I don’t like that tissue!”

Lucky for me, she’s still in her crib with nowhere to run. Against her still-tired protests, I gently dab her eyes and wipe her nose before lifting her out of her crib and carrying her to the rocking chair. I try to soothe her by hugging her close to me and caressing her back in slow, circular motions. This technique usually does the trick on mornings such as this…though not today.

Olivia pushes away from me and continues to vocalize her unhappiness. At least she is no longer screaming; she has downgraded to a mere whine – at a very high volume. She glares at me with a sourpuss expression that is unfamiliar to me, her mouth ajar to allow the high-pitched wails to escape. She squirms uncomfortably in my lap and tugs at her pants.

“What’s wrong, Olivia? Did you have a bad dream?” I ask, while gently sweeping the hair out of her face.

“No, I NOT have a bad dream,” is her immediate reply. She seems annoyed that I would ask such a question.

“Do you feel bad? Are you hurting?”

“No!”

“Does your tummy hurt?”

“No, my tummy does not hurt,” she answers crossly.

She groans and grunts as she yanks on the left leg of her pajama pants, which has ridden up almost to her knee, and says, “My pants are coming off!”

“Oh, I see. Let me help you.” I grab the elasticized cuff and pull the pant leg down to her ankle, into its proper position.

“And now another one,” she directs me, pulling at the right leg, which was at about mid-calf.

I adjust the right pant leg and am suddenly aware that her whining has ceased.

“There we go!” Olivia says happily.

Seriously? There is no way that she was that distraught over a simple wardrobe malfunction.

We relocate to the changing pad for a fresh diaper, and I am met with immediate opposition, as anticipated. As soon as Olivia is in position, I pull out her pink comb and strum the tiny plastic teeth with my thumb. The sound makes Olivia stop protesting to take notice. She smiles. I comb through her matted hair as swiftly and painlessly as possible – just a few quick strokes – and strum the comb again to elicit another smile. Then I hand over the tiny instrument to distract her from the diaper change. My plan was not successful.

“No, I don’t want to change my diaper,” she informs me.

“Well, we have to change your diaper so you don’t get a diaper rash. And you’re soaking wet.”

“No, I not soaking wet.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m the one holding the ten-pound diaper, and I can assure you that you are soaking wet.”

“No, I not.”

I sigh. This is going to be a fun day. As if reading my mind, sensing I was in need of a reprieve, she brings the comb up to her face and, peeking at me through the row of pink, plastic teeth, asks, “Where’d Olivia go?”

And just like that, with a single burst of irresistible cuteness, I have forgiven her morning tantrum.

***

But our day was just beginning, and it was filled with exchanges such as this:

“I need juice! I need juice!” Olivia chants pleadingly.

“You’re thirsty? Okay. Mommy will get you some juice. Can you ask properly?”

“Please may I have strawberry juice?”

“We don’t have anymore strawberry juice, Honey. I need to buy some more. You can have apple juice.”

“Mama will get some more strawberry juice at the store.”

“Yes, I promise. But right now we have apple juice. Or you can try some of Mommy’s mango lemonade?”

“No, I DON’T want to have that lemon juice! I want APPLE juice!” She falls to the floor in dramatic fashion and bursts into tears.

“Olivia, just say ‘no, thank you.’ You don’t have to have mango lemonade; I was just offering it because I think you would like it.”

“No, I DON’T like it!” she yells back.

“Here is your apple juice.” I hold the cup out to her as she gets to her feet. She takes it with two hands, tilts her head back and starts chugging. I wipe a tear from her cheek and tuck her hair behind her ear as she walks away.

“Thank you, Mama.”

“You’re welcome.”

Once again, her patience-trying outburst is forgiven.

***

Based on how our day began, I should have expected naptime to be difficult, especially since Olivia does not take normal naps.

Several months ago, when it became apparent that she was not going to sleep more than her twelve-hour stretch at night, we transitioned from “naptime” to “downtime.” We would rock Olivia and sing her a song to bring down her energy level a bit, and then we would place her in her crib and allow her to rest for a period of about an hour. During this time, she did a lot of what she typically does when she first wakes up in the morning. She would lie on her back and gaze up at the colorful pom-poms and lanterns hanging from her ceiling, chat with the couple of toys keeping her company in her bed, and sing songs to herself to pass the time. She seemed very accepting of the concept of “downtime.” She never really complained about it and almost never called for us to come get her before the end of her rest period. However, all of this changed after Olivia’s Adventures in Wonderland. With all of the excitement of the trip, the timing of our boat outings, and the fact that Olivia slept in a giant playroom, our recent vacation was completely void of downtime. Of course, after removing that important period from our daily routine for seven straight days, it has proven impossible to reinsert downtime into our daily schedule. As far as Olivia is concerned, downtime is a thing of the past.

By this time, we have been fighting the uphill downtime battle for a couple of weeks, with very little success. It was now taking an hour just to get her into the bed without screaming, and then I would have to promise to come back very soon to retrieve her, a promise I would have to repeat over the monitor several times upon leaving her room in order to avoid a tearful protest over my exit. She would entertain herself for no more than twenty minutes before declaring, “Mama, downtime is over! I want to get out of my crib!”

On this particular day, however, Olivia has decided that she is not participating in downtime at all and there is nothing I can do to change her mind. And when I refuse to give in to the whims of a two-year-old who is half my size, she lashes out at me with a fury. Just as she began the day screaming from her crib, here she is again, screaming from her crib. But this time is different; it’s worse. This time she is undoubtedly screaming out of anger – at me.

Olivia is mad at me for subjecting her to downtime, for not letting her decide her own schedule. It’s as though she had specifically set aside the period of 12:45 p.m. to 1:30 p.m. for the purpose of building Rapunzel towers out of blocks, but I, being the horrible despot that I am, had interrupted her playtime and imprisoned her in a 28” x 52” cell. She is not going down without a fight.

At first I think I can handle it – no problem. But, even if you know that your child is okay, that she isn’t sick or hurt, you can only listen to her crying for so long. Even with the monitor silenced, her cries fill the house. Hearing her sobs, I feel terribly sad for her but also grow increasingly frustrated over her stubborn refusal to give in to our old downtime routine that had been working so perfectly. I try to ignore her as I prepare my lunch – a grilled pepperjack cheese and pepperoni sandwich – but I find that to be an impossible feat. I get maybe three bites into my sandwich before realizing that I can’t even taste it over the cacophony of her shrieks and wails.

Suddenly, I reach my boiling point, and I want her to know it. I burst into her room and declare, sharply and sternly, “Olivia, that is enough.” I’m not yelling, but I might as well be. I am never this harsh with her. I continue, “There is no reason for that. You’re going to give yourself a headache. You do not have to take a nap, but you do have to get some rest.”

Before entering her room, I had been committed to making her stay put for another ten minutes or so, long enough to allow myself to finish my lunch. I was going to scold her, replace Peter Rabbit and Mickey (who had been ejected from her crib during her fit of rage), give her a hug, and then exit the room to rejoin my half-eaten sandwich. But when I see her swollen eyes and tear-soaked hair clinging to her red cheeks, I know I can’t leave her there. Instead, I find myself repeating our morning, with me trying to clean her runny nose while she objects loudly, “I don’t like that tissue on my nose!”

I free her from her cell, expecting her to celebrate her newfound freedom. Rather, she falls dramatically to the floor and continues her fit. I ignore her tantrum and head back out to the living room. Less than a minute later, I am sitting and eating my sandwich when she approaches me, wearing that same scowl as this morning, emitting that same high-pitched wail. We engage in a bizarre stare-down for a while. I eat and she wails, neither of us breaking eye contact. The strength of her cry gradually wanes until she suddenly stops and asks, ” Wanna bite?”

“You want a bite of my sandwich?” I ask her.

“Yes,” she answers with a grin.

“Okay, but it’s a little spicy. It’s pepperjack cheese. Can you say pepperjack?”

“No, I CAN’T say pepperjack!”

Sheesh. 

***

After we finish my lunch and Olivia has her own lunch (which is also, upon her request, a grilled pepperjack cheese and pepperoni sandwich), we relax on the sofa for a little bit of TV time. I decide to take this opportunity to attempt a discussion about feelings.

“Olivia, I’m sorry Mommy made you upset earlier when you didn’t want to have downtime,” I begin. “I know you were frustrated, and it’s okay to feel frustrated, but you can’t yell at Mommy like that, okay? That’s not nice.”

“Yeah,” is her soft reply. She looks me in the eye and listens intently.

“And I’m sorry that I didn’t talk very nicely to you either,” I continue. “I was frustrated, too, but I should have been nicer with my words. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” she says again. Her breathing is slow, calm. She seems to be considering my words carefully. Then, nodding her head, she says, “We have to be nice to each other.”

“That’s right,” I confirm. I can’t help but smile. “Can I have a hug?” I ask her.

“And a kiss,” she says, grinning back at me, and then she wraps her arms around my neck and touches her cheek to mine, before planting a sweet little kiss on my lips.

***

Grading the day as a whole, it was a nightmare, yet there were still moments of joy sprinkled throughout the day. For instance, Olivia has struggled with identifying the letter “N.” She sometimes thinks it’s a fancy “H” or twisted “K” but has never correctly named it for what it is. But on this day, during one of our calmer periods, we are having a pretend cookout in her teepee when she suddenly announces, “Oh, I almost forgot! I have to get something for you!” She runs out of the teepee and into the kitchen, returning seconds later with two alphabet magnets from our refrigerator.

“What letters are those?” I ask.

With a big smile, she answers, “An ‘M’ for Mama and ‘N’ for Nana!” (Nana is Olivia’s great-grandmother.)

I explode with excitement. “That’s right! ‘N’ for Nana! Great job, Olivia! I’m so proud of you!”

She beams with pride.

“Give me five!” I hold up my palm, and she smacks it with enthusiasm. She then runs out of the teepee, excitedly shouting, “I’m gonna get another letter. Be right back!”

***

As we begin our nightly bedtime ritual, I fear that we are headed for disaster. Olivia is protesting virtually every step of our routine.

“No, I don’t like that sound machine and fan on,” she whines.

“They help you sleep better,” I tell her.

“No, they don’t.”

Olivia rubs her eyes in exhaustion. Her whine grows more faint; she is losing the energy to maintain it. We begin rocking. Her head rests in the crook of my arm. I comb through her hair with my fingers.

“I’m sorry you had such a rough day today, Honey,” I say to her in the quiet, soothing tone with which I had begun the day. “Tomorrow will be better. We just need to remember that, even if we are frustrated, we still have to be nice to each other.”

“Yeah,” she answers, nodding her head. Then, she looks me in the eye and quietly says, “I’m sorry we yelled at each other.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and manage to say, “I’m sorry, too.”

I kiss her softly on the forehead. She closes her eyes and nestles her head more snugly into my chest. Within moments, she is sound asleep, resting peacefully against me.

And just like that, all is forgiven.

When I saw that Disney Junior was airing “Alice in Wonderland” (the 1951 animated classic), I decided to record it for Olivia in case she would have some interest in it. She was certainly interested, to say the least.

I opted to introduce it during mealtime, so that she would be strapped into her highchair (or “stuck,” as she calls it), unable to run out of the room and distract herself with other things. I wanted to ensure that she gave it her full attention. From the moment the movie began, she was absolutely mesmerized. As I usually do when introducing a new book or movie, I excitedly drew attention to the sights and sounds on screen, in an effort to pique her interest, but it quickly became apparent that “Alice in Wonderland” needed no embellishment on my part. Olivia was hooked.

Over the days and weeks that followed that initial introduction, the request to “Watch Alice?” was repeated an average of three times a day. She quickly memorized the film’s sequence of events and learned to identify any particular scene based on simple auditory cues.

One afternoon, Olivia and I are sitting in her room, flipping through her animal alphabet book. She points to the pictures, correctly identifying the images. “Lion…llama.”

“Good job, Olivia.” I turn the page to the “M” animals, but Olivia suddenly exclaims, “Oh! The treasure cat!” and runs into the living room to stare fixedly at the television, where Alice is meeting the Cheshire Cat for the first time. She settles into her chair and we watch for a while, until the Mad Hatter’s tea party comes to a close, the little mouse descending from the fireworks and returning to his yellow teapot. Olivia leaps up from her chair and exclaims, “C’mon, Mama!” as she hurries back to her room. But she has tired of the animal alphabet. Instead, she pulls a different book from the shelf, hands it to me, and enthusiastically asks, “Want to read Alice?”

“Alice in Wonderland” has also inspired a new game that Olivia loves to play. We call it “falling down the rabbit hole.” I guess it’s not really much of a game. Basically, at any given moment, Olivia will send one of her dolls or little stuffed animals plummeting to the earth from what is, to her, a great height: the edge of her crib railing, the arm of the sofa, the side of her car seat. When the unfortunate toy hits the floor, Olivia cries out, “Uh-oh! He fell down a rabbit hole!” Practically everything she owns has fallen down at least one rabbit hole by now, but you can typically tell which toys Olivia favors most by how often they take an imaginary tumble into an underground burrow. Her favorite toys garner the most attention, of course, so, naturally, they suffer this fate most frequently. (Lucy the Mouse has probably fallen through close to a hundred rabbit holes over a period of six weeks.)

***

We recently enjoyed our annual Fourth of July vacation with my in-laws. There are a few hundred miles between us, so we don’t get to see them as often as we would like. To Olivia, it must have seemed as though she had fallen through a rabbit hole and into her very own Wonderland. Suddenly, her Grammy and Pops (and her aunt, uncle and baby cousin), with whom she can usually only visit via FaceTime on the iPad, were right there in front of her – in the flesh! Their presence alone was exciting to her. She could not get enough of them and felt the need to keep track of their whereabouts at all times. Whenever one of them would leave the room, we were sure to hear about it.

“Where’s Pops going? Oh, he went in the laundry room.” It was as though she worried that, at any moment, they could disappear, possibly zapped back into the confines of her iPad.

Olivia and I went downstairs for breakfast one morning and were surprised to find that Grammy was not in the kitchen as usual. “Where’s Grammy?” Olivia asked immediately.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I figured she’d be here. Maybe she’s on the patio.”

“Okay. Let’s go see,” she politely demanded. “We need to find Grammy.”

***

On top of the magic of seeing her family members temporarily released from iPad imprisonment, Olivia’s Wonderland adventure was full of more surprises. Although it stormed throughout most of our first day of vacation, it cleared up early that evening to reveal the most beautiful rainbow, which happened to be Olivia’s first ever rainbow sighting. Looking out at the magnificent, tranquil lake and dense canopy of trees, I see the full and complete arch of color stretching across the sky. I can’t imagine a more perfect setting in which to view a rainbow. Instead of grabbing my camera to memorialize this stunning image, I hoist Olivia onto my hip and rush outside before it vanishes.

The beauty of this spectacle was not lost on Olivia. She gazed at the giant, colorful arch reaching up from behind the trees, stretching high over the water and across the sky, and extending down behind another dense cluster of trees on the opposite shore of the lake. She was clearly impressed, perhaps speechless?

“Do you see that rainbow?” I ask her encouragingly.

Still gazing at the sky, she smiles and says, “I do see that rainbow!”

And so the adventures in Wonderland continue.

***

This was the Fourth of July, after all, so Olivia was able to witness a spectacular fireworks display put on by some neighbors across the lake. This was her first time seeing fireworks in person, and she could not have been more thrilled. As it got dark (and past Olivia’s bedtime), we sat by the large, picture window and waited patiently for the fireworks to appear.

“Where are you, fireworks?” Olivia would ask from time to time.

“Keep looking,” I would tell her. “They’re coming.”

“Oh, they’re behind the trees!” she suggests.

“You think?”

“I think.”

And then they begin.

“Oh, I see it!” She literally squeals with delight when the first firework explodes in the air, showering the sky and water below with sparks of bright, glittering light.

Olivia must have assumed that this was my first time viewing fireworks as well, and she took great care in making sure that I was not missing out on the extraordinary sights.

“Did you see that red firework, Mama? Did you see that purple firework?”

For dramatic effect, Olivia adjusts her volume to emphasize her exclamations. For a particularly impressive firework sequence, she exclaims, “Wow! That was a BIG firework?!”

This continues for about thirty minutes or so, until there is a long enough break for us to be able to convince Olivia that the fireworks are “all done” and that it is time to go to bed. I was surprised when she did not protest her bedtime at all; I had assumed that she would plead for more fireworks. But I suppose Wonderland had exhausted my sweet little girl, and she knew that she would need her rest to have enough energy for the next day’s adventures.

***

She was right. The sun shone brightly on our next day at the lake, so swimming was on the agenda. Olivia’s first reaction to the lake: “That is a BIG swimming pool!”

After only minimal reluctance, she jumped right in – literally. She thoroughly enjoyed swimming (that is, floating with assistance) in the giant swimming pool. Watching her in her dad’s arms, so small in this rather large body of water, I was reminded of a tiny, little Alice floating in a sea of tears. My little adventurer. My little dreamer.

***

Just as Alice’s dream had to come to an end, so too did our vacation in Wonderland. During the car ride home, I surprised Olivia with an appearance by her stuffed Mickey Mouse, with whom she had very little contact during our entire vacation. She enthusiastically engaged Mickey in conversation about her time at the lake.

“…Did you see me feed those geese, Mickey? That was so nice…I had so much fun…You’re driving in the car with me, Mickey!…”

Their conversation goes on for quite a while, with me playing the role of Mickey from time to time. Olivia then says, “Oh, Mickey, he’s so cute,” and she pulls him close to her, hugging him tightly. Seconds later, she suddenly releases him and tosses him over the side of her car seat.

“Uh-oh!” she says. “Mickey fell down a rabbit hole!”

clearly amateur photo, but it was the best I could do

original artwork by A. Lee, an admittedly very poor visual artist, although, in Olivia’s opinion, one who is superior to Jackson Pollock – see “Everyone’s a Critic”

I worry that I may be inadvertently instilling into Olivia an irrational fear of spiders. I think it’s perfectly acceptable, and preferable really, that she have an appreciation of the spider’s potential danger while still being able to comfortably coexist with most of its species. I do not want to raise a Little Miss Muffet who runs away shrieking at the mere sight of a tiny spider. On the other hand, I also would prefer that Olivia not require medical attention because she tried to befriend an unwilling brown recluse.

To be fair, we do have somewhat of a spider problem. It’s not so much of a problem for us because my husband and I don’t really mind spiders. That’s not to say that I will not leap ten feet in the air if one suddenly sprints across my path through our living room, or when a spider which most certainly descended from the one featured in “Annie Hall” decided to surprise me upon opening my bathroom cabinet one evening. (Neither of those spiders lived to tell their versions of what transpired on those two occasions.) However, I am quite positive that many small, unobtrusive spiders are currently housed comfortably around our home at this very moment, cozied up in the dark, underside corners of various pieces of furniture purchased from our favorite local home furnishings store, which acquires its pieces from India and Thailand, places I can only assume are teeming with these eight-legged creatures, as we can directly correlate the beginning of the infestation to our earliest acquisition from this particular store.

Regardless of how the little arachnid immigrants made it here, my point is that I don’t mind their presence. As long as they leave me alone and remain hidden, I will leave them alone as well. Well, except for every Friday when I vacuum the house and their webs get sucked up with the rest of the week’s dirt and debris. Every now and then, between Fridays, I will encounter evidence of a particularly overzealous spider, whose handiwork requires immediate attention. Of course, the kid who misses nothing sees it as soon as I do, calling for preventative measures:

“Wow! Do you see that, Olivia? That is a BIG spider web!” We examine it together, mainly so that I can discern whether there is any imminent threat, i.e., a large predatory spider crawling around the web, inviting a curious little girl to reach out and have her perfect little hand bitten. There isn’t.

“Okay. Stay right there and don’t touch it. Mommy is going to get a napkin to clean it up.” I take just a few steps away from her and into the kitchen.

While hastily dampening a paper towel, over the noise of the running water I can hear Olivia repeat my instruction, “Don’t touch!” Perhaps she is coaching herself, giving herself a pep talk to abate her growing curiosity.

I, too, offer re-encouragement. “That’s right. Don’t touch! Mommy will be right there!”

I reenter the living room to see Olivia standing in exactly the same spot as when I left her. She watches as I collect the spider web in the wet paper towel and crumple it into a ball. She then excitedly yells, “Okay, Mommy throw it away!” She follows me to the kitchen, or I follow her actually, and she watches as I dispose of the crumpled up remains of the spider web. She slams the door to the trash cabinet with resounding finality.

***

Olivia sometimes likes to sit too close to the TV. She will sit on the floor directly in front of the TV cabinet, with her legs straight out in front of her and her feet shoved underneath the 3” gap between the floor and the cabinet. I don’t want her sitting that closely to the television primarily because of the strain it puts on her head and neck but also because, as I once warned Olivia, “There could be spiders under there, Honey, and I don’t want them to bite you.”

Olivia has never been bitten by a spider, but she is no stranger to an ant bite, so this is enough of a warning for her. She removes her feet from underneath the cabinet. Initially, I thought this was harmless enough. After all, I am not lying to her. There are indeed spiders under the TV cabinet; I vacuum up the evidence every Friday. But Olivia now “sees” spiders under virtually all of the furniture. While playing in her room recently, she was rolling around on her floor and her foot brushed under the skirt of her rocking chair. She then lifted up the skirt, peeked under the chair and announced, “Oh, I see a spider under there!”

Uh-oh. What have I started?

As one who, admittedly, has an over-the-top irrational fear of a different animal that I will not even identify here, I worry that my cautioning Olivia about spiders could cause her to develop a similar phobia. I certainly don’t want that to happen.

But for now, I have to think safety first, so I’ll stick with my current game plan. Later, to counteract any possible arachnophobic implantation, I’ll just make sure she reads Charlotte’s Web a few times. That ought to do it.