Through the Looking Glass...

Reagan loves mirrors and large panes of glass in general.

Her hands, mouth and nose are particularly drawn to these items. Every morning and again after her nap, we must visit the large windows in her room. I pull up the shade and she smacks her hand flat on the glass. She says, "code" which is cold in Reagan's language. She smears around on the moisture collected there and then rubs her hands together, points at the next window and follows the same routine there.

Our front door is a playground for little fingerprints, nose bumps and lip residue. I pray no one turns her in for all the little rocks, doll brushes and hubbas she collects around town. The cops would have no problem finding her prints and DNA on our front door. And the patio doors, too, for that matter.

I readily admit that it's hard for me to pass a mirror without at least a quick nostril check and I don't want to have spinach in my teeth and would prefer my hair to be Cheerio free, so I pause there. If Reagan is in my arms, she loves to wave hello to her image and then she puts her head on my shoulder and stares at us while I say, "there's Mommy and Reagan" over and over again softly in her ear. It's this sweet, deliciously warm habit we've made in our mornings together.

Then she leans forward, drool dripping from her chin and gives the looking glass Reagan a nice, juicy kiss and a couple hand smacks and we're off to face our day.