Happy Half

Jarrah is officially 2 1/2 this week. I really can't believe it. The book Your Two-Year-Old warns that 2 1/2 is a lot more terrible than plain two. Eek. I'm bracing myself. ;)

So...what's important in her life these days? Joy. Friends in general, including new adult friends. "See friends?" is often the first thing out of her mouth when she wakes up. Movies. "Fwimming." Making pretend pizza (though we've expanded into pancakes now.) Fruit, especially "BlackBlueberries." Anything with cream on it. Camp, where her mystery boyfriend Ethan is (I'm not sure I've ever seen this paragon of manhood.) Jump-jumps, though they can be "too hot." Copying people, even if they've just sliced off their own finger. Owies of all kinds. Imaginary (at least to me) things that are "gross" or "ewwww." Bees--she draws them and fears them; they "get mad and stink."

But she still doesn't care about cuddly stuff. No blankies (unless Joy has one), no lovies, no stuffed animals. The one exception is "The Baby."

Funny story about The Baby. Last summer, I took Jarrah to Target and she was making me crazy from the cart. (That part has not changed.) I finally turned her loose in the toy section, and lost sight of her for a bit. When I found her, she was carrying a small plastic baby doll, completely bald, wearing what looked like a turquoise warm-up suit from the '70s and a jester's cap. The doll and the outfit were filthy. I didn't want to make a scene, though, so I let her hold on to it for a bit. Then I forgot, and we were at the check-out.

"How much was this?" asked the checker. "It has no tag."

"Ummmm....." I said. I really didn't want to get into the likelihood that Jarrah had stolen it--perhaps forcibly--from another child.

"99 cents?" the checker replied. Those Target people--they're nothing if not efficient.

"Sure," I cringed. And so The Baby went home with us. She's never had a name. Jarrah calls her The Baby and so do we. I managed to wrest it out of her hands long enough to swab it with Clorox wipes and run the sweatsuit through the wash.

Ever since that day, Jarrah has slept with the Baby. At night, we tuck Jarrah under a blanket, and the last thing she says is "Baby?" One of us digs under the piles of scorned stuffed animals until she is located (she might very well be a "he") and tucks her under Jarrah's chin. Then she rolls to her side and snuggles The Baby, and goes to sleep.

I've noticed that the The Baby's feet are gnawed to nubs. I really don't want to know if it was Jarrah or some bereft child somewhere who was responsible for the carnage. All I know is, we better never lose that Baby, because we have no clue where to get another one. The Baby is one of a kind.