Tonight at bathtime, Ingrid stumbled on the concept of infinity, but, like many people staring down the unending, felt more comfortable imposing limits on it:
She: …twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty!
Me: All the way to thirty by yourself! Know what comes after thirty?
She: Um. Thirty…two?
Me: Thirty one.
She: And then thirty two! And thirty three!
Me: You got it.
She: (plays in the water for a while) The numbers keep going on and on for ever.
Me: That’s right. It’s called being infinite. It means there’s no end. If you keep on counting, you just keep getting to another number.
She: I can just keep counting and counting and counting.
She: But not at bedtime.
In other news, Iris’s new trick is, when she’s mad about something, she throws herself down on her stomach and smacks her forehead into the floor over and over. This is so awful and bizarre to see, I can’t help but believe it’s the result of terrible mothering. So, naturally, it makes me feel like screaming. Which, tonight, I did, because the head banging was not only awful as usual but was the result of a long drawn out battle over whether Iris would wear the short-sleeved cotton PJs on this 90-degree night or the the thick fleece pajamas. Guess who was on which side. Guess who won. Guess who feels like kind of a rotten mama.