This morning, when I took Baguette to daycare, she was excited to be there. She opened the door to the classroom without being prompted, and she ran up to a group of girls and started playing with the same toys they were using.
(This is HUGE. Six months ago, she would have retreated to the corner with a book. Now she chooses to play with the other kids.)
She picked up a toy ice cream cone and said, “Ice cream!” One of the other girls said, “Don’t eat it!”
I said, “Oh, it’s okay. I think she knows the difference between the toy and real ice cream.”
The girl said, “Sometimes babies put things in their mouth.”
Every child in that room is 3 or 4.
I said, “Well, she isn’t a baby.”
“Yes, she is. She can’t talk.”
One of the other little girls–we’ll call her Daisy–who has been in the same room as Baguette since they were both infants, said, “She can’t do anything.”
Baguette dropped the cone and headed for the bookshelf, where she selected Can You Tell Me How to Get to Sesame Street. It’s the book she’s most likely to pick up at school. I think I know why; it’s because no one in that book would be mean to her, with the possible exception of Oscar.
Daisy said, “Well, she knows Hebrew.”
I said, “She knows Hebrew?”
Daisy said, “Uh huh.”
I answered, “She’s still learning some things, but she’ll learn faster if you’re nice to her.”
Bestie came over to the bookshelf to hang out with Baguette, and gave her a one-armed hug.
Parenting is harder than being in your 40s.