I’m not sure if it’s a toddler thing or a girl thing or what, but Cora and Maddie both love purses and bags, and have recently found a few they just adore.

It started in July – we were walking around for a July 4 celebration and saw a little girl with a water bottle carrier slung diagonally over her shoulders. The bottle carrier was made to look like a butterfly and was sized for a little person to wear, and Maddie thought it was the coolest thing ever. I stopped the family to find out where they’d gotten it, and the rest is history.

Both of my girls were born without much hair to speak of – I guess it’s just a family thing. And when Maddie was a baby, I didn’t want to be one of those women who glue a bow to their bald kid’s head, so I waited until Maddie actually needed one before trying the hairclip thing.

Big mistake. By that time, Maddie was perhaps 18 months old and had definite opinions about what did and didn’t look good, and hair accessories fell soundly in the latter column. I spent the next six months trying to coax any type of hair accessory onto Madeleine’s head, having success at first with the head band, then alligator clips, then (still reluctantly) the elastic rubber bands. The fights were not small, but I kept trying since the alternative was a face full of floppy hair and a girl who kept running blindly into walls.

About a month ago I decided our family needed a kids’ wagon: with our community pool opening in May I’ve been planning ahead for the daily treks, ordering swimsuits and sunscreen and cover-ups and such, and realized I’d need something to haul all that gear back and forth. Since it’s less than a mile to the pool I refuse to drive there, but also have no desire to become a pack mule, laden with droopy toddlers and squirmy babies, towels, water bottles, and so on.

Hence the wagon decision.

Cora’s in the midst of a rather intense bout of separation anxiety, as I may have mentioned one or twelve times. If I can slip out unnoticed she’s fine, but as soon as she spies me after a long absence – say, a thirty-second pee break – she bursts into tears and begins jabbering frantically, filling me in on all the woes that have been heaped upon her head while I’ve been gone. Sometimes she’s content to play happily on her playmat, surrounded by stuffed animals and chew toys, while I work in an adjoining room. Other times, she needs to be near me but will entertain herself, say, on the kitchen floor, while I step over her and keep up a stream of conversation. In those instances, as long as she can see me, hear me, occasionally feel me, and believe that she’s got my attention, she’s fine.

But then there’s the other 70% of my life, when nothing will do but that she must be held. By mommy. (And in those moods, hand her to my husband and she gets a look on her face that’s positively French in its contemptible disdain: “What is zees Daddy zing? Sacre dieu! ‘E steenks! Pieu! Removez-moi rapidement, s’il-vous-plait!” It would be quite funny if it weren’t for the hurt look on Brian’s face.) And listen, with a child rounding the corner rapidly towards 8 months, this holding thing gets old.