At the breakfast table

On Tuesdays, my mom comes to watch the girls while I work. The dear woman gets here at 7:10 in the morning and plays exhaustively with them until after lunch, so she knows exactly how hard this job can be sometimes. Of course, they mutually adore each other though. And I freely admit that she does this far better than I do. On the days when Manga comes, you might get to do anything from making molasses cookies to going on a nature walk (and she lets you a) get out of the stroller as much as you want to pick as many clover and dandelions as you want, or even better b) doesn't make you get in the stroller at all, but lets you take your dolly stroller with and walk along beside her, going as slowly and/or stopping as many times as you want). She'll let you finger paint and will teach you how to turn somersaults. She'll play tag and hide-and-seek. She'll even help you make an exact replica of Thumbelina--the size of a child's thumb--including her little walnut shell bed and tiny bedding (I'm so not kidding).

But today I heard Elaine screaming at the top of her lungs all during breakfast, and when Lucy came upstairs I asked her what was wrong. Here's what she said: "Smoochie's being a brat. She won't eat any of your nice food. She won't eat your yogurt or your toast or your fruit or your nice waffles. She's bawling her head off. She just wants you, Mom."

But...that was over in a few minutes, and now I hear them all preparing to get the various dolls and strollers out.