Day 12: Cats, Lunch, and Changing Rooms

Forward march with my random posts. This monthlong blogalong might be better if I followed a theme. Theme-driven posts, however, require a certain amount of discipline, which, as I've written about in the past, is something I lack; hence Cats, Lunch, and Changing Rooms. Let's do Cats first.


These poor sods. For years they bathed in the adoration of their human counterparts. Ollie, in particular, was treated like a spoiled prince. We held him in our arms during dinner, rearranged our bed to accommodate his needs, and spent a ridiculous amount of money on sensitive tummy food. Ten years later finds Zuzu hiding out in the litter box to avoid Grace and Julia, and Ollie so starved for attention that he salivates on company. The picture above captures them waiting, not so patiently, for dinner. If Zuzu could write, she would scratch "This is what starvation looks like" onto a sandwich board and march around the kitchen.

Moving on. Lunch. Grace is staying late at preschool today for her first ever "Lunch Bunch". You might think I would be the first woman in the house to enjoy a lunch out with friends, but no, it's Grace. To prepare for this momentous occasion, we had a girls night out, which involved shopping and dinner at a deli. First stop, we bought a lunch sack which she picked out herself: "It's brown with lots of pink squares, lots of them." Dinner was next. As we stood in line, I read her the options from the kids menu. She screwed up her face, clearly unhappy with the options.

"Don't they have peanut butter and chocolate sandwiches?"

"No, babe, it's not like home."

Brows furrow, and I silently curse Craig for introducing the Nutella and Peanut Butter Sandwich into our lives. Meanwhile, the cashier, who has been listening to our conversation, offers, "I think they can make that sandwich. They have chocolate sauce back there."

Face relaxes, and a small smile starts to form, first in the corners of her mouth.

"Okay, if you can do it, she'd like a chocolate and peanut butter sandwich."

"And chips," says Grace.

Dinner was good.  She reached across the table and held my hand.  We were on a date, a mommy-daughter date.  

Finally, our third installment: Changing Rooms.  After dinner, we went to Target.  I had to buy some CDRs and other Target stuff.  As we wandered through the aisles, Grace commented, "I have to wear orange tomorrow.  I don't have anything orange."  Well, okay, so we'll find something small and orange.  

I have many titles in my life, including laundry lady, dinner lady, grouchy-don't-bother-your-mother-it's-called-PMS-lady, and finally clothes-shopping lady, to name a few.  I can't help but peruse the baby-toddler section whenever I'm in Target (or any other store), but those days are numbered.  Grace is growing.  Depending on the store, I find her clothes in two sections.  She's a 4T in the baby-toddler section and an extra-small in the Little Girl section.  This distinction is simultaneously small and enormous.  It makes me want to cry.  

Last night, in search of her orange item, we ended up in the Little Girl section, where everything, according to Grace, was "very cute."  She is so finely tuned to my responses that she only latched onto a few items: a sweater, a shirt, and a pair of jeans, size 4 not 4T.  She knows that I don't buy things without consideration.  She's never thrown a fit in order to get something because she's always known it wouldn't work.

In reference to the jeans, "These are good, mommy."

"Well, your pants are getting a little high.  Why don't you try these on."  

We march back to the changing room.  She's been present for many shopping trips where I tried items on, but this, Grace trying on clothes in a changing room, is a first.  

"Do you know you can be naked in a changing room, and no one can see you."

"Oh really."  And I wonder, where did she get that idea from?

Once in the room I help her undress down to her Curious George undies.  Her belly, stuffed with dinner, is round.  In that moment it looks like the belly of a toddler.  She pulls on the pants, turns around, and waggles her butt in the mirror.  Next comes the shirt and sweater.  

"This is so great, mommy."

Yes, it is.  And it isn't, but only because it makes me want to wrap her up in my arms and hold her forever.  As I write this, my eyes are tearing up.  She's taken to reminding me that she will always be my baby:  "I don't want to get any older.  I like me right now. I'm always going to be your baby, right mommy?"  There are times when I know she says that more for me than for herself.