We are officially in that long-anticipated phase where Elaine has lots of thoughts and knows tons of words, and often strings long sequences of those words together to describe those thoughts to us. And seriously, toddlers should all be poets laureate. The incredible gift they have (or at least ours has) for saying things that basically make no sense whatsoever yet imply very profound meaning and symbolism and insight is really something to envy.

On the other hand, sometimes the things she says sound like the ravings of an absinthe junkie. 

My parents are getting ready to move, so lately they've been offloading a lot of my childhood crap onto me via USPS. Recently we received a box with four Madame Alexander dolls, as well as a porcelain doll my parents brought me from Europe when I was 9. Elaine's room has, conveniently enough, a 7-foot-high shelf that runs its entire circumference, ideal for displaying things that are not meant to be used or touched. (Other parents of toddlers know that things that aren't meant to be used or touched should probably just be thrown out when you have a 2-year-old running loose.) I procrastinated on putting the dolls up there for a couple of weeks because I had a feeling Elaine would not be amused at the prospect of a display of dolls in her room that she was not allowed to strip naked, poor milk all over, suffocate with towels, and imprison on her potty chair (I have thus described her standard treatment for dolls). I finally got around to it yesterday, though, while she was out of the house.

Brought her into the room yesterday evening and laid her down to change her diaper, which is when she first caught sight of two of the dolls. She stared. Then she said, "That one a li'l girl" (pointing at one dressed in a poufy white gown). And then: "That one her mommy" (pointing at the one nearby in a purple cotton dress). "Ok!" I said, glad she was interested in talking about them. "They're here to be your friends. They're going to stay up there and keep an eye on you and make sure you're safe." She seemed ok with this. Then she arched her neck a little and caught sight of two of the other dolls. Her face changed and she sat up. 

"That one the daddy," she said, pointing at a doll with short, curly hair who wears a satiny tiered dress with lace at the collar. (This is clearly a child born and bred in the Bay Area.) Her breathing seemed to be getting a little shallow. "Sure, ok!" I agreed. "That the daddy," she repeated. And then, after a minute, "It kinda 'cary." ("Kinda 'cary" is by far my favorite phrase of hers. Nothing is ever just "'cary." Always "kinda 'cary.") "No, no!" her daddy and I both exclaimed. "Not scary. They are all your friends. Not scary at all." "Take it away," she said, starting to do the toddler panting thing. "Daddy take it AWAY." Daddy stood on the couch and fetched the offending doll and headed for the door. "Daddy's taking it away," I said. "You don't have to have it in here if you don't want to."

Her finger was in her mouth as she watched him leave the room. "Bye-bye, monsters," she said.