Sage's spud-child

Sage has decided that her father's can of Piknik potato fries is her own little baby doll named Sara. 'Baby Sara' gets cradled in Sage's arms, sung to sleep, and dressed and undressed with rather troubling glee. (Poor Sara's wardrobe consists of sheets of typewriting paper which are wrapped around the can and sometimes fastened with tape... only to be whipped off again with the accompanying celebratory announcement, "You're naked!") Sara is also prone to frequent 'owies', which must be treated with a kiss and meticulous application of transparent tape 'bandages'.

Sage invented this game all on her own, and Sara is the first toy of hers that she actually named herself, with no prompting. So I'm thrilled that her imagination is vivid and thriving, but somewhat dismayed at the choice of object. Aside from the fact that people may think we never buy her proper toys, we are no longer permitted to eat Sara's contents. In fact, the lid of the can has been taped on, and any attempts to remove it have met with stern disapproval.

But the cutest part is that Sage treats her 'doll' in much the same way that we, her parents, treat her. She gives Sara horsey rides on her back, and embraces the can comfortingly, cooing, "Don't cry, Sara, I'm here, Mommy's here..." So since Sage likes to hold hands with me and dance around the floor that way, I asked her why she doesn't dance with Baby Sara.

"Mommy," Sage replied with sorrowful patience, "Sara has no hands."

I never learn.