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She’s poking at my toes as I clean the bottom of her little brother, a feat that requires every bit of my concentration if I don’t want baby poo to end up all over the walls.
“Child, what are you doing?” I ask in frustration.
“I count toes!” she tell me, delighted.
“You’re counting my toes? Go count your own toes! You have the same number that I have!” And for once, she complies.
She moseys out to the other room and I can hear her counting: “One, two, three…” But then I lose track as her brother performs a particularly acrobatic attempt at wiggling away from me.
When I can again turn my attention from squirmy boy, she’s back at my side. “How many toes do you have, baby?”
She tells me proudly that she has “‘leven” toes.
“Really now. I think you’d better go count again.”
This time she squats next to me. And again she counts perfectly to eleven. “I have ‘leven toes, Mommy.”
“No baby, try again,” I tell her, now struggling to force the wiggly boy into his jammies, which is not nearly as easy as it sounds.
She squats; she counts; she reaches ‘leven once again. And she’s convincing enough that I actually glance down to make sure that she still has only ten toes.
Even though I was there at her birth; even though I counted her fingers and toes before she was even placed on her mother’s stomach; even though I’ve washed, tickled and nibbled those toes times without number.
Such is the persuasive power of my larger baby (or the distractive power of my smaller baby) that she can make me wonder just for a moment if she’s managed to sprout another toe.
Rupert
Sailor
Marcelle Manhattan
kamo on October 19th, 2007 
medy on October 19th, 2007 
Omnipotent Poobah
Finn
nitebyrd on October 19th, 2007 
Selena Kitt
Silence Up2NoGood
Barbara
