Sweetness

Had to go to the grocery store today, no bread, no milk, no yogurt, no apples. So we went. Somehow going always reminds me of when V was small and it was so hard, oh, so hard, with me sweating actual panic sweat in the aisles, trying to placate her in a million ways and still always having to leave before I got all the way through the aisles. For one thing, part of my PPD nightmare is that I believed if we were in a public place and I took my hands off her, or even off the grocery cart when she was in it, somebody would rush up and kidnap her. Sure, NOW I know this is insane. At the time, not so much. Perhaps that is why Violet would always save her most horrific baby tantrums for the grocery store. One time I remember actually weeping my way through the checkout, helplessly sobbing along with Violet as everyone in the known universe stared at the mom losing her mind. I'm so tired of being other people's cautionary example.

I think those early trips were so hard because Little Violet did not like being strapped down. Bigger Violet, who understands the reason she is constrained in the cart, and who is big enough to understand that she gets a balloon and stickers at Trader Joe's, is a perfect angel in the store.

"Do we need apples, baby?" Yes, we do. I hold up a selection for her. "Pick the prettiest."

"Dat one, dat one, dat one," she points at two Pink Ladies and a Gala. "I hold?"

"No, honey, if you drop them it'll ruin them," I say. "Take this instead," I tell her, handing her the bag of avocadoes and a strawberry yogurt (28 grams of sugar!!! that is 7 teaspoons. But just this once.).

She receives the yogurt happily. "Yummy yummy strawberry yog. You sit right over hyah. Here's this guy," indicating the avos "and that guy," talking to the yogurt. "Dey jump up, down. 'Hey you, you sit over hyah by me,'" Violet says in her high squeaky voice, talking for the yogurt. "I like you, my straw friend."

We get all the way out with no tears, not even any whining. Violet gets a pink balloon. "What will we name it?" I ask her.

"Pink boon. Pink boon kite. Pink."

"What about Fred? Or Myrna?"

"No, pink boon," she tells me, brow furrowed.

"No problem."

"My mama says no problem!" she says, burrowing into her carseat. "New carseat," she reminds herself. It is two months old, but she can't get over it. Thank God she didn't see Mary and Peter carting off the old one for their kid, Dash. She woulda never gotten over it.

Back home we have lunch in pieces: the yogurt, slices of actual fresh strawberry, peanut butter spread on apple slices and the seed bread I made last night. I sit with Violet. "Eat my yogurt!" she commands. "No! No! Don't eat!"

"OK," I say, defeated.

"Mama, eat my yogurt!" she says, dimples flashing. You can't win with her.

After lunch it's time to cuddle her into her nap. We twine together and I read her the personalized book my Auntie Jean got her; Violet likes it because it has textures to feel. Bobo crawls under the covers with us, in between us. He and Violet are starting to be good friends. "Oh, Bobie!" she says in surprise when she feels his fur against her bare legs. "He good cat!" she tells me. Yes, I know. The sky is gray and foggy outside, but we're warm and snug inside, sleepy, warm, all together.