Her mother lifts her over the cot rail and sets her down on the floor, picks up Nicholas. Together they walk to the top-floor landing, then painstakingly descend the stairs to the bathroom, where Frieda’s potty chair is pushed back against the tiled wall near the sink. On the potty’s wooden back is a decal of three kittens wearing mittens. The trinity of kittens proved nearly as intriguing as the potty itself at first, with Frieda craning her neck for a better view as she sat. With a few successes, elaborately congratulated, under her belt, she’s now devised her own potty ceremony. While Nick clings to the lip of the clawfoot tub and bounces, Sylvia sits on a small wooden child’s chair, one hand steadying her son, the other unsnapping Frieda’s blue pajamas and slipping her diaper pins back through the cotton cloth. Standing before her potty, pursing her lips, Frieda grips the hem of her pajama top in both fists and lifts it over her tummy. Chin down, belly thrust forward, she lets go of the top to slip the bottoms down over her hips. Top falls back down—Sylvia begins to correct her two year old’s logic but thinks better of it, stays silent, observing—Frieda ignores the problem with the top. She hooks her thumbs under the elastic waistband and tugs the bottoms down her thighs. When they reach her knees, her diaper flops out. This is evidently part of her plan. Frieda bends forward at the hips, pushes her pajama bottoms all the way to her ankles. She stands up, pajamas puddled at her feet, tummy out, rounded and velvet as a peach. Again, concentrating, her eyes heavenward, Frieda lifts her jammie top to her armpits, elbows akimbo. Thus totally, safely skinned, she drops her chin to secure the gathered top and starts to feel behind herself with one hand—Sylvia reaching out to spot her—and sits down.

Moments pass. Nick is tasting the edge of the tub.

Frieda sits like a pharaoh, back straight, shoulders slightly hunched, her hands cupped around the armrests of the potty chair.

“Legs together,” Frieda soberly recites.

“Such a clever girl, Pooker,” Sylvia says quietly, hesistant to disturb Frieda’s focus but thinking a little encouragement might be well timed. “Do you think you would like to sing?”

Frieda nods.

Breathily, Sylvia begins to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Nicholas bobs to the sound of her voice. A hissing sound begins: Frieda looks up, her mouth open in surprise.

*   *   *

In the warm nursery, Frieda stands nearly naked before the full-length mirror affixed to the inside of the open closet door. Sylvia, after praising, wiping, and stripping her daughter, has sorted through the bureau drawers for two sets of clothing and has now succeeded in nearly dressing Nicholas in a pair of fuzzy red coveralls. Again, she calls to Frieda: