I haven't seen as much pacing as I saw on Friday in fourteen or fifteen years. I haven't seen that much pacing since Kat's preschool and toddler days. Back in those days, she loved "bebe." Actually, she still loves bebe. When Kat is anxious or overwhelmed and within the confines of her own house, bebe may be wrapped around her shoulders. Nowadays, a day without bebe is possible. Back then, an hour in the house without bebe was interminable.

"Bebe" is a green and yellow knitted afghan. My grandmother made it for Kat, back in the days when blankets in cribs were considered necessities and not bad news. Bebe was similar to the gold and green afghan my grandmother knitted for me when I was in college, which probably added to its allure, but it was half the size. It was just the right size for a small child. Kat dragged it everywhere (and it still sits at the foot of her bed�most of the time. It sometimes creeps up to her pillow.)

But, like all blankies, bebe occasionally got so filthy that washing was de rigeur. I would pry bebe away from Kat and let her accompany me downstairs and say "bye-bye" as I put bebe in "bebe's bathtub." Then we would return upstairs and Kat would give me all the reasons she thought bebe did not need to get clean and should be returned "right now!" By the time she ran out of repetitious reasons (and toddlers love repetition), bebe was clean. Unfortunately, bebe was not dry.

Once again we would troop downstairs to wish bebe well on bebe's journey. I would show Kat that bebe was wet and needed to be dried. We would put bebe in the dryer and again she would say either a tearful or an angry goodbye, depending on the day. And then she would begin to pace.

She would pace in my living room, back and forth. She would peek at "Sesame Street," or her favorite, "Mr. Roger's Neighborhood," and come back into the kitchen to see if it were time yet. She would sit and read for a few minutes and then come back and check again. I used to set a timer so she would know that when the ticking was done, it was time. The only thing that kept her from crawling right out of her skin was the thought of a warm bebe. The only thing Kat loved more than bebe was a warm bebe. And eventually, she would have it.

But it was not bebe in the wash on Friday and it was not Kat who was pacing. It was something that I did not even realize would provoke that response and it was Day who was pacing. You see, the blue polar fleece zip-up sweatshirt that her grandparents got her for Hannukah was filthy. I took it and I washed it.

All the time it was in the washer, Day whined about being cold. She couldn't wrap a blanket around her because it would get in the way. She couldn't wear another sweatshirt because it would not be warm enough. She wanted�. She needed. And then the sweatshirt went in dryer.

And Day began to pace. I lent her a polar fleece sweatshirt my mother had made me. She stopped whining about being cold and complained about the fit. She paced and she paced and she paced.

And then, there was the sweatshirt, clean and dry and----warm. She put it on and hugged herself.

Someone once told me that there was less difference between a toddler and a teenager than many people thought. Given a special object and laundry, that person was right.

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