Last night, as I cleared the dinner table, I watched my daughter playing mother in the living room. She held her own sippy cup, still half-full of milk, up to her baby doll's rosy plastic lips. When she proceeded to lose her grip and drop the bottle squarely on her baby's head, I heard her say "owie" and then give lots of kisses to the site of the imaginary wound. She rocked her baby, sang her Twinkle Twinkle, and tucked her in tight on the dog's bed with a pillow and blanket