Wednesday, September 2, 2009

I wear my sunglasses at night so I can so I can keep track of the visions in my eyes

When I was pregnant with E I had a good friend who insisted that I needed to adhere to one certain piece of mommy advice even if I ignored everything else.

"As soon as you figure out what bear or animal she loves," she said, "buy two more of it. Keep them in the closet and rotate them. You never want to face the ramifications of a missing lovey."

Somewhere around six or seven months old E developed a small interest in a brown bear. Luckily he was a Gund and I quickly bought two more. She lost interest in that bear very quickly. I gave his backups away as gifts. Several months after that, she loved a certain gray elephant. It was the chewableness of his trunk that got her through her canine-teeth teething. Determined to succeed at lovey-maintenance as well as lovey-insurance-policy maintenance, I tracked down two "new with tag" doppeltrunkers and put them in the closet. She cut her teeth and never looked at the elephant again.

I never believed in loveys again. My girls each have proven to be serially monogamous lovey lovers. E has obstinately insisted on sleeping in various phases with assorted animals, certain blankies, the proof of purchase from a My Little Pony, the tiny hairbrush from a My Little Pony, a rock she found on the ground, a two-inch soft letter "E" that came from a baby shape-sorting toy, and an old burp cloth that she says is her kids' blanket. L has taken her anteater into her crib, the matryoshka doll that is supposed to live on her shelf, different books. Sometimes she has to fall asleep hugging her milk cup as it slowly drips into the sheet to curdle the next day as it provides that cold, rigid plastic comfort only the embrace of a milk cup can give. This week, though, she's fixated on the strangest lovey yet.

She hugs her sunglasses as she falls asleep.

She puts them on and takes them off several times before she'll fall asleep, and she clutches them until her fist relaxes. When she wakes up in the middle of the night she wants a pat on the back from her daddy but also her sunglasses back in her grasp.

Yesterday morning she woke up at some inappropriate hour and declared herself ready to begin the day. I don't know what time it was but no light whatsoever was peeking through the curtains. She called for her daddy to get her out of her crib and when he did, she came running into our bedroom. Uppy! UPPY! she demanded on my side of the bed. I said good morning to her, asked her if she had any hugs or kisses for me, asked her if she wanted to snuggle. She wouldn't respond until she got up on the bed, crawled across me and plopped herself in the middle of our pillows. She unfurled her sunglasses from her left hand and in a near-black room only the most faintly illuminated by the 4-watt glow of the hallway bathroom's nightlight, she put them on her face. Only then would she talk to me: hi, Mommy!

Good morning, my adorable little weirdo. Pin It