bitsy’s got her own perspective on things.

bitsy can count to twelve (especially if you’re loose about needing ten or eleven), and so she counts regularly and often, most usually things that are arbitrary and invisible (which i take as further proof that she is an astute observer of current events, since counting arbitrary and invisible items is all the rage in the economic sector.) but every now and then she’ll look slyly sideways at me and say “five-five-two.” i respond with nine-nine-one. or three-three-four. these appear not to be correct. i am now brushing up on the business section of the nyt.

don’t say “x” to me.
i’m nursing boo and bitsy climbs into my babyful lap to kiss the baby or poke his eye, and then to holler in his ear “i love you baby!”

“ssssh,” i say. “baby is trying to sleep.”

“don’t say ‘ssssh’ to me mom,” she says, turning on a dime from sweetness and light to toddler rancor.

pick a scenario, fill in your word. i am not to say ‘x’ to her, and she means it.

i am not disobedient mommy.
most often said with a sweet, beseeching look after she has broken thomas-the-train tracks over boo’s head. technically i suppose she’s right, since i haven’t told her specifically not to use her brother for kung-fu practice. my bad.