I rushed to pick her up.
She cried and squealed as she repeated her mantra of the moment.
“I want my mommy." Pause. "I want my mommy." Pause. "I want my mommy." Louder: "I want my mommy!”
I held her. I rocked her. I sang to her. I assured her that mommy would return.
Five minutes passed, and the mantra magnified.
“A popsicle?” I suggested.
It worked. She pointed to the freezer, and we picked out an eight-inch-long squishy green popsicle sealed in a plastic tube.
When mom came back, she asked her daughter, “How were things with grandma?”
“First, I cried for you, mommy. Then grandma gave me a popsicle!”