"Afwaid"

Last night we attempted to introduce Vivi to the joys of cooking. It did not go well.

It seemed as if it might work. Vivian, after all, likes to wear oven mits and stir the air (loudly) in a pot on the floor while I cook. And my mom (she's visiting) was making banana bread, the perfect thing to let a toddler mash and stir.

So we pulled a chair up to the counter. Oh, no, says Vivian, I'm not standing on that, that's much too weird. So I held her and let her watch Mom beat eggs and butter. Vivian's eyes were wide and her mouth tight. She started to make little noises.

Then suddenly she burst out: "afwaid!"

"You're afraid?" I asked. "Afraid of the mixer?"

"Afwaid, afwaid, afwaid," she answered. She was shaking. "Afwaid!"

"Should we put the mixer away?"

"Gone!" she answered.

So my mom said, "Okay, we'll put it away." She lifted it out of the bowl. Vivian started to scream. I scooped her up. Mom popped the paddles out of the mixer and stuck the body in the drawer, fast as she could.

Then she wanted to be with grandma, so that she could see the mixer hadn't hurt her. She wrapped her arms and legs around her. "Afwaid," she muttered, burying her nose in mom's shoulder. "Gone, gone."

It's a new word, "afraid," and I guess it's good -- but oh, she broke my heart.