My 2 year old and I entered the bagel bakery with great hopes of different things. I wanted to get out of there in less than ten minutes with our breakfast. She wanted cream cheese with a side of bagel. For her, the bagel itself was nothing more than a tool used to transport the white spread towards her mouth.

     Grace was all about white. White shirts, white dresses, white nightgowns. The moment I’d clothe her dolls she’d strip them back down to expose the white fabric that made up their torsos. Warm milk was her drink of choice. And the white accoutrements…sour cream, cream cheese, mayonnaise and whipped cream all lined our fridge door like snowmen.

     As I leaned over the counter to place our order, Grace turned to the lady next to us and said, “My mommy has a baby in her tummy.”

     “Oh does she?” said the nice lady.

     “I going to be a big sister.”

     “Isn’t that nice.”

     “Yeah.”

     The nice lady turned to me. “She speaks very well.”

     “Thanks,” I said.

     “My mommy puts whipped cream on my gy-nie. Make it feel good.”

     The nice lady turned to me. So did the people in front of her. I smiled and pulled Grace close.

     “No, no, Sweetie.” I forced a laugh. “That’s Desitin.” Where were our bagels?

     “NO des-a-tin. WHIPPED CREAM like on my JELLO.”

     “Grace,” I said in a low voice, “relax.”

     “NO! I GOTS WHIPPED CREAM ON MY GY-NIE.” She plopped down on the floor and reached under her dress for her (white) panties. “I show you!” The store went silent. A few too many people leaned over.

     I heaved the irate child over my shoulder, paid for the bagels and made a hobbling escape out the door and towards the car. I kept my eyes forward as I buckled her into the car seat. She pulled her bagel out of the bag.