I am two years old. I live at home. I have no job. I have a playpen, where I stay for much of the day, staring at pictures in my “Mother Goose” nursery rhyme book. I am content to sit in the playpen for hours when I have Mother Goose and Richard Scarry to keep me company.
My mom works. She leaves in the morning, and my grandmother, Nana, comes over to babysit. We sit at a snack table, glossy black with gold swirls in it, and play a game involving poker chips that is nothing but a vague memory now. I remember her smile beneath her haze of white hair. It is beautiful hair, and I have not yet learned that it is undesirable to be old, so I think she is beautiful.
I go over to her house sometimes, and she sits with me on the aging and very ugly green couch, in the parlor with the red carpet, and sings to me. I remember her voice years later, when she can no longer speak. She feeds me Russell Stover chocolates when my parents are not looking. Dark chocolate raspberry creams are my favorite. Everything else is a blur. I am two years old. My name is Stephanie. I am loved.