matching tracksuits

A few portraits snapped through the last few days.

Dziemik (“jam”) is a new favorite, and she wears it well. It’s particularly tasty on a Saturday afternoon when L has been entertaining herself — quiet well, in fact — while K and I clean.

1/20, f/5.0, 24 mm

We got home Wednesday and L headed straight to her room to rummage through her treasures. The light was perfect, and the camera at hand.

1/60, f/5.0, 46 mm

We end each evening with play time in L’s room. In fact, we spend a significant amount of our evening in her room, reading, playing, dancing (though only L does the dancing).

1/20, f/5.0, 70 mm

At school, everyone is “Miss.” Miss Karen. Miss Cathy. Miss Deborah. Miss Brenda.

Miss Cathy — L’s favorite — works in Toddler I. L no longer sees her on a daily basis, but her eyes light up when she sees Miss Cathy coming.

Miss Karen, Miss Deborah, and Miss Brenda work in Toddler II, where L spends her days now.

I wondered whether L thinks “Miss” is just part of their name, but it’s become obvious that L has separated the “Miss” from the name. She understands it as a prefix, but she still doesn’t understand its significance. It’s a term she uses with individuals she really likes.

Hence, I am often “Miss Tata” now. K is “Miss Mama.” Our cat, “Miss Bida.”

In Albert Camus’ The Plague, one of the characters — referred to as “the Spaniard” if I recall correctly — sat in bed with two bowls, counting peas, moving them from one bowl to another. So many repetitions of this and it was lunch time; so many more, dinner; still more, and it was time for sleep. It was Camus’ portrait of nihilism, the notion that all life is meaningless and amounts to little more than waiting for death.

Then there are accountants, known affectionately as bean counters. Is there so kind of connection? Perhaps there is something ultimately nihilistic about spending one’s time, counting other people’s money. Then again, most accountants do fairly well counting, so perhaps it’s not as bad as the Spaniard.

L has taken to counting beans, though she does it literally.

It’s something they do in Montessori, something all the kids enjoy: moving dry beans from one container to another and back again. It’s wonderful for developing coordination and an understanding of materials.

And when a mis-aimed cup spills beans all over the floor, it’s an opportunity to deal with frustration (something L is not very good at without accompanying vocalizations) and patience.

And it keeps her busy long enough for me finish picadillo.