Wednesday night Ruby insisted that I wrap her up like a sausage in her fuzzy red plaid blanket before carrying her up to bed. When I set her down in her bedroom, she put the blanket on her bed and toddled off to "brush her teeth" (read: carry her toothbrush around the upstairs while making spitting noises without actually brushing). When she was done doing that, she came back to her room and said she wanted to be tucked in with "the blanket I brought upstairs."
"Okay, honey," I said, and picked up the fuzzy red plaid blanket.
"No, not that blanket," she said. "The blanket I brought upstairs."
"But this is the blanket you brought upstairs. It's the same one."
"No, not that blanket - the blanket I brought upstairs."
We argued for a little while, as we do every night, and I wavered between indulgence and exasperation, as I do every night. Finally I said, "Ruby, here. You have four blankets to choose from." I laid out the fuzzy red plaid blanket on the floor, and then snatched up the three blankets that had already been on her bed (a fuzzy gray plaid one, a blue quilt, and an afghan) and tossed them down as well. "Now, you tell me which was the one you brought up."
"No, not those blankets," she said reasonably but firmly. "The blanket I brought upstairs."
"Ruby!" I said, picking up the fuzzy red plaid blanket again in desperation. "This is the one you brought upstairs!"
"No it's not." This with a little head shake.
I grunted and tossed the blanket back on the bed. I felt as if I were trying to plot my next word choice in a Scrabble game, and was working with an O, five I's and a Q. Irritably, I said, "Well, then, where is the one you brought upstairs?"
"I put it on my bed," Ruby said matter-of-factly.
"You put it on your bed?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
Very indulgently, as if she were dealing with a small child, Ruby pointed at the fuzzy red plaid blanket I had only that moment thrown onto her bed. "Right there," she said.
"Right there?"
"Yeah."
"So . . . is that it?"
"Yeah!" (Read: Well, duh, Dad.)
After the miraculous rediscovery of the lost fuzzy red plaid blanket I was permitted to tuck her in and go back downstairs.
"Okay, honey," I said, and picked up the fuzzy red plaid blanket.
"No, not that blanket," she said. "The blanket I brought upstairs."
"But this is the blanket you brought upstairs. It's the same one."
"No, not that blanket - the blanket I brought upstairs."
We argued for a little while, as we do every night, and I wavered between indulgence and exasperation, as I do every night. Finally I said, "Ruby, here. You have four blankets to choose from." I laid out the fuzzy red plaid blanket on the floor, and then snatched up the three blankets that had already been on her bed (a fuzzy gray plaid one, a blue quilt, and an afghan) and tossed them down as well. "Now, you tell me which was the one you brought up."
"No, not those blankets," she said reasonably but firmly. "The blanket I brought upstairs."
"Ruby!" I said, picking up the fuzzy red plaid blanket again in desperation. "This is the one you brought upstairs!"
"No it's not." This with a little head shake.
I grunted and tossed the blanket back on the bed. I felt as if I were trying to plot my next word choice in a Scrabble game, and was working with an O, five I's and a Q. Irritably, I said, "Well, then, where is the one you brought upstairs?"
"I put it on my bed," Ruby said matter-of-factly.
"You put it on your bed?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
Very indulgently, as if she were dealing with a small child, Ruby pointed at the fuzzy red plaid blanket I had only that moment thrown onto her bed. "Right there," she said.
"Right there?"
"Yeah."
"So . . . is that it?"
"Yeah!" (Read: Well, duh, Dad.)
After the miraculous rediscovery of the lost fuzzy red plaid blanket I was permitted to tuck her in and go back downstairs.
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