accessorizing

the front door burst open. i looked up from cooking to see Tornado Susanna standing in the foyer, her hands on her hips. "i need my bus," she informed me. i had no idea what bus she was referring to, but she seemed quite sure of herself (as she always does) so i left it to her to get it. she clomped upstairs in her pink and white flower sandals, her mission clear. i'm not sure if it's just our children, or if it's typical of this age in general, but neither liam nor susanna can ever find ANYTHING they're looking for. the object of their search is often right in front of their eyes, and they still require assistance. so, not surprisingly, i soon heard susanna calling for my help from her bedroom. "i can't find my bus anywhere!" she wailed. i stood at the bottom of the stairs, patting my hands dry on my apron, as she stared down at me from the top. in my mind i inventoried our endless supply of toys and still came up short. "honey," i said, "i have no idea what bus you're talking about." she sighed. "not a bus, mommy. my BUUUUUUUUUUUUUS." as the over-enunciation didn't help, i asked her to describe it. "it's black. with sequins! i put my treasures in it," she explained. and suddenly, i understood. it was no bus she desired; it was her purse. (her difficulty with the "r" sound often makes things a tad tricky.) as soon as we finally located it in the playroom under her pink ballerina costume, she headed back out the door. she beelined it to liam's hand-me-down big wheel, looped the straps over the handlebars, and then straddled the plastic seat with a gleam in her eye. and the lesson is this: if you're going to be racing your older brother down the driveway at full speed, winding up in a giggling heap in the grass with dirt in your hair, you better darn well look fashionable doing it.