Smarty Pants

I've always known my little Bean was a smart one, even since before she started speaking in sentences at 18 months and, more recently, counted to 100 and memorized all the verses of Psalm 100. She exhibits her intelligence, not by showing off nor with any sort of smugness, but by letting it seep out in her conversation and play with the sort of innocence only a small person can muster. She especially surprises me when I hear her at play in her room, creating dialogue between two toys or between herself and Tasha, her imaginary friend. She's her cleverest and most creative when she is alone, without the possibility of correction or judgement from others.
Two small incidents today really drove home the reality that she does absorb the little facts and tidbits that Eddie and I share with her daily about her surroundings. Like many parents, we really try to tell her as much as we know about whatever subject comes up and her curious little mind gobbles up and tucks away all these precious scraps of knowledge like a squirrel gathering nuts.
One of the toys she received for Christmas was a highly coveted (by her) Barbie Island Princess Doll holding what we assumed was a fox, myself having never seen the movie. After finally dismantling the packaging (seriously, are you kidding me? they spend more money to package these things than on the toys themselves!) I read in the instructions that her pet was actually a panda. I began to explain, "Actually, it says here that the 'fox' is a panda. There are other types of pandas besides the black and white kind." To be honest, I couldn't even remember what they were called, and was trying to think of the name when Naomi said, "Yeah, you mean a Red Panda." Of course, how foolish of me to assume that my 4-year-old didn't know about Red Pandas! If I had given her a few more minutes, she probably could have told me what they eat and where they live.



Later, she and I were having lunch consisting of grilled cheese and tomato soup. I told her she'd have to do more than just dip her sandwich in the soup - she had to take bites of it. "It's your vegetable, so if you don't eat it I'll have to find you another vegetable," I told her, thinking carrots or peas.
"The soup isn't a vegetable!" she said, laughing.
"Well, what do you think tomato soup is made of? Tomatoes! And they're a vegetable, silly!" I said to her.
"No," she replied, "tomatoes are fruit!"
And if you'll think back to science class you may remember learning that the part of the plant that contains the seeds is the fruit - a fact that we undoubtedly imparted to her at some point. Despite her well played argument, I still made her eat several bites of her fruit soup.


And about my "fountain of milk" Sylvia Plath reference - it's actually a "RIVER" of milk in the poem (which still applies! I have an astounding milk supply it seems!) I pulled it out the other day to read - what an amazing piece of writing. As the title suggests, the poem is about three women, and comes from each of their "voices" or points of view inside a maternity ward. I first read it before Naomi was born and loved it then, but now that I have carried, birthed, and raised children it means even more to me.
I changed the title of the blog to include Elliot as well. "Elsworth" is the nickname my brain latched on to for her. Usually I just call her Elles. I don't know why sometimes a name just feels right, but I have experienced the phenomenon (and lack thereof) multiple times with nicknames and the naming of pets, etc. Elsworth just fits, and I usually think or say it in a British accent as well. Reminds me of the dream I had when I was pregnant with Naomi, in which she was about three months old and started talking in sentences with a British accent. She said, "Mummy, may I please have some juice?" and I called my mom and said, "Mom! The baby can talk! And she's British!"