February 14, 2005

It's 8:10 in the morning. We have to be out the door in ten minutes to catch the bus. My kindergartener is on the couch in her PJs without a care in the world. I deliver an impassioned speech outlining the dire consequences of missing the bus and the need for immediate action with regard to going potty, brushing teeth, and getting dressed. I rush off to find my socks, and return to find her reclining in a pose the Queen of Sheba might have adopted while having her feet massaged by slaves. She's reading the Yellow Pages.
      "Dad," she says, "can you get me the White Pages?"
      Three burst blood vessels and one brain aneurysm later, I have hustled her off to the bathroom, where potty-going and teeth-brushing ensue, albeit at a pace that will accommodate further contemplation of the phone book. "Dad," she says, "can I call myself on the phone?"
      "Well, yeah, you could use the cell phone and call our home phone."
      "Then would I answer?"
      "Well, yes—please hurry, sweetheart, put on your pants—if you held both phones at once."
      She is disappointed. What she wants is to talk to a parallel version of herself in Telephone Land. After I explain, while getting her into her shoes, that this is not going to happen, she asks, "well, then can you break the mirror and can I go inside?"
      "No," I say, getting her coat and backpack on and turning out the light, "but if we catch the 8:30 bus, the little girl in the mirror will catch it too."