I went to pick up Rabbit from school this afternoon and she was sitting in the school library with the rest of her after-school club group, the lights dimmed, watching “Bolt” on a projection screen.  As you might imagine, she was less than thrilled to see her mother show up in the middle of a movie.  I couldn’t leave her there until 5:30 as I usually do on Mondays and Wednesdays, since I had to be at a house inspection by 4:30 and was taking her along with me.

She stood next to me, pouting, as I signed her out.  I saw her shoelaces dragging on the floor and bent down to tie them.  It was then that I noticed she was wearing the right shoe from a pair of purple-accented sneakers and the left shoe from her pink sneakers. 

“Rabbit,” I whispered, “Did you know you had on two different shoes?”

“Yes,” she said.

“On purpose?” I asked.

“No!” she whispered. 

I sighed.  Her shoes are scattered throughout the house, one in the kitchen, two in the living room, a couple in her closet, one on the stairs.  It’s as though she is in a parade and is tossing them around like candy to bystanders.  There wasn’t time to go home and change, so I had to take her with me to my appointment witha buyer and a house inspector, wearing mismatched shoes.

At the house, she poked around in closets, explored the back yard, and followed me around with the inspector and my client.  She would run through the garage door and out the side door, over and over, and then go back into the house.  She took her shoes off and stretched out on the old sofa (the house doesn’t currently have anyone living in it) and then jumped back up, ran to find me, and declared “I’m bored!” 

Finally, after the last questions were answered by the inspector about plumbing, the water heater, the age of the roof, and the definition of romex wiring, we got ready to leave.  Rabbit was sitting in a lone recliner in a back bedroom, her feet up.  “Mommy?  Can we snuggle?”

“No, Rabbit.  We can’t snuggle.  We need to get going!”

She slid out of the chair and stomped over to the door and slammed it behind her as she raced to the car.  She sighed loudly from the rolled down car window as the grown ups finished up talking on the front step.  Once I got in the car, she loudly stated “I want ice cream!”

Grrrr…

“We’ll stop for a quick something for dinner, but no ice cream.  We have that at home and maybe after your shower, and when Daddy gets home, if you have been good you can have ice cream.”

So she kicked the back of the seat of my car most of the way home.  I should have been more bothered, but I was just so tired, I let it go.  I didn’t know how much of it was my persistent headache from lack of caffeine, the lingering crabbiness from the time change, and the disruption of regular routine for her after-school rituals. 

After dinner, I parked her in front of her Daddy’s computer, where she is now happily watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood re-runs on PBSkids.org.  Because he apparently never snaps at children, has a magic screen in the living room, and likes her just the way she is, no matter what.   Some days, all I can muster is “Thank God for Mister Rogers.”