Rachel’s nieces Sydney and Hannah were in town for the weekend, and Rachel and I babysat them. After dinner Hannah, who’s four now, insisted I play “bad witch” with her. I was to be the bad witch.
“What does the bad witch do?” I asked.
Fine. Bad things. I stuck her in the bathroom sink and told that if she tried to get down I would turn her into a bar of soap and wash the dog with her.
She liked that.
Then she demanded some bugs to eat, so I got her a handful of grapes.
“If you eat all these bugs,” I said, “you’re going to become the fattest girl in the world.”
“Because these bugs get really really big inside you, and you can’t ever get them out.”
“I’m going to eat them anyway.”
“You won’t be able to leave this bathroom if you do, because you won’t be able to fit through the doorway.”
“I don’t care. I’m hungry. Give them to me.”
“Suit yourself. Since I’m a bad witch, I want you to eat the bugs because it means more soap for me. I like soap.”
Chomping on the bugs, Hannah asked why I like soap.
“Because it’s made from little girls.”
I laughed demonically, brandishing my claw-like hands.
Hannah was unmoved. “You don’t scare me, you soapy witch. Now bring me more bugs.”
Later Hannah gave me a drawing she made. The black part, she felt compelled to explain, is my t-shirt.