Here's Bea, during a rare trip to Banana Republic, finding friends among the headless. She cozied up to the expressionless but well-dressed man, above, looked up at his neck adoringly and said, "Hi, Uncle Noah!" When we showed the photo to Uncle Noah, he pointed out that he does not wear flannel shirts. I think it's interesting that he commented on the attire of the guy instead of the fact that the guy doesn't have a head. Bea also enjoyed holding the hands of the women, whom she did not name (they're dressed better than I ever am, so no wonder).
Late last night, after viewing an independent film ("The Baxter," so quirky and really fun), Martin and I sat up even later pillow-talking about Bea. Oh, she's a funny kid these days.
She'll be three in a couple weeks, but with two older sisters, she thinks she's bigger than that. She loves her independence, and whether it's redressing herself several times in footie pjs, tearing around outside with the older kids, holding the egg beaters or removing something from a high shelf, she likes to announce, "See. I a grownup." Here she is, confidently tackling the crooked house at the Children's Museum in Pittsburgh, shortly before she went up again by herself and panicked at the top of the tunnel-slide. I had to go and retrieve her and felt nauseous for a while afterward. That crooked house makes me want to barf every time.
Among other things, Bea's been trying to convince herself not to be afraid of monsters. A week ago, my mother and I lingered at the supper table, but Bea was done and ready to retrieve something--probably more footie pyjamas--from upstairs in her room. But it was dim and there was nobody else upstairs.
"You can do it," we told her, and she stamped off with a little swagger, which is her independent walk. We heard her footsteps stop at the bottom of the stairs, and then she came back again.
"There are no monsters in this house," she announced, and thus reassured, she turned around and walked back toward the stairs. Back she came. "I not scared," she said, extending her hand and waving it in the air as if we were concerned. The same thing happened, and she was back again, gesturing at us and glancing off toward the corner of the room. "I a grownup!" she said finally, and then she was off again--this time she bravely made it all the way into the murky upstairs all by herself.
Last night, right before bed, she told Martin, "There are no monsters in this house." She paused and thought about it some more. "Monsters are my fwends," she said, and went on to explain that there were two mommy monsters with baby monsters whom (I guess) live in our house with us, named Cali and Cooloo.
I hope they're not hungry tonight, because I'm just planning enough dinner for five. That's not to say any of you aren't welcome to drop by, assuming you eat a bit less than monsters.
