Miss T. was having a hard day today. The crayons had to stay in the center room, her stick fell through the porch stairs, and Miss A. at day care wouldn't let her color with markers on the table, only on PAPER, and it all was just cramping her nearly-two-year-old style.
I didn't want to cook, but taking her to a restaurant was clearly a poor idea. So I sent Beaker to pick up takeout. Miss T. was upset. She was upset about everything today, so she was upset about Dada leaving too. She stood at the door screaming "MY DADDY! MY DADDY!", only occasionally consenting to a brief hug, until he came back.
It was very, very hard to hear and watch. The father of two tiny little children at Miss T.'s daycare died suddenly a few days ago. I'd only met him once, at the playground with his kids. He dressed all rawk-n-roll but seemed young and sweet, and we talked about our toddlers' development (Miss T. barely walking, his boy barely talking) while he sat cross-legged on top of a giant concrete mushroom and gave the baby a bottle. They'd just moved to Granolaton. He was taking care of both kids while his wife worked, since they were still on the waitlist for Box-o-Tots, and it sounded like they were maybe having a sort of rough and transient time. After the conversation I felt old and bourgeois, but also very secure, and very grateful for that security.
His boy is just past two now, only a little older than Miss T. I'm all in a lather because Beaker will be away for four nights next week, and how will Miss T. (who wants Dada to read her bedtime stories now) react? And she was all in a lather over Dada leaving for ten minutes tonight. But that little boy (oh, and that baby, and that hardworking mama)... he's old enough to hurt.