almost two

Almost two for Beatrice means a lot of things. Almost two is alive with imaginary play, and replete with insistence about fashion, games, toys, food - basically, everything - basically, a lot of insistence. It is characterized by a panache for expressing her feelings all the way, all the time, and a powerful desire to connect, to show, to tell a story.

Also, almost two is shot through with an intractable dislike for hats and mittens. Sadly, it is February.

It was about nine degrees yesterday, with a bitter wind. Frances is spending the week with my mom. Beatrice and Gabriel both have colds and passed much of the weekend lying low with play dough and books and games. By around 4 o'clock on Sunday afternoon they really, really wanted to go outside and play. Marisa from next door was over and she and Gabriel quickly put on coats and hats and boots and ran out the door. Beatrice - napless, red-cheeked, slow-moving - whined her way into a snowsuit and boots. I held out a hat.

No hat.

You have to wear a hat today, and mittens, because it's so very cold.

I don't wanna wear a hat, Mama. I don't. NO HAT. 

I tried cajoling. I tried distraction. She burst into tears. I tried the pointless dead end (but hope springs eternal!) You Can Choose route: would you like the blue or the purple hat? She threw herself on me, sobbing. I tried reminding her of all the fun she would have playing with Gabriel and Marisa, once she put her hat and mittens on. She looked at me, snot streaming down her face, resumed crying, and fell on the floor in agony.

Gabriel opened the sliding glass door to ask if I would toss him a fresh pair of dry mittens. Beatrice ran across the room to him, sobbing: Gabriel, Gabriel! I - don't - (sob, sob) - want - to - (cough) - wear - a - (sob) hat! Gabriel! 

I sat on the floor, defeated, listening to her tell him how awful it was. She didn't want to wear a hat, see. Mama was making her, Gabriel, it was so terrible, this insanity was breaking her - she was a shell of a girl.

I heard him get down on his knees and hug her and say: you don't have to wear a hat, Beatrice! It's okay!

As they say in Baltimore, bless his heart. But seriously. She has to wear a hat.

Somehow, eventually, I got the hat and mittens on. We went outside. By the time we'd walked around the side of the house Beatrice had pulled her mittens off. I chose to ignore this. Maybe seven minutes later her hands were red and chapped, and she was crying from the bitter cold. Marisa decided it was a good time to go home, and Gabriel also burst into tears, because he had waited so long for me to come out and now I wasn't even going to play with him. Because of Beatrice. Again!

So that happened.

But then tonight, after Beatrice's bath, she was snuggly and funny and singing songs. She wanted to read George and Martha with Gabriel. She always wants to read George and Martha, as do I, as does Gabriel, as does Frances, when she is home. (It is, possibly, one of the very best books: endlessly delightful, wise, poignant, and irresistible to all three children. Beatles songs are the only other thing we've found that can do that.)

Our agendas were blessedly harmonious. George and Martha are so funny. Do you know the one about Martha opening George's secret box that she has been asked not to open, only to discover it is filled with Mexican jumping beans? And how a yellow one gave her quite a chase?

*

We just love that story. And we just love Beatrice, in all her glorious contradiction and passion and hilarity. Life with her is definitely not easy. In fact, she can drive me completely bonkers. But ah, Beatrice, don't change! Almost two is precious, it is wondrous, and it is just exactly right.


*Frances, are you reading this? Do you see how Beatrice is using your Valentine? We have discovered a new life for iron bead works of art! She presses it onto play dough and makes very satisfying heart-shaped impressions covered in even little bumps.