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Clara Jane woke up around shortly after I took my brain pill and announced, "I'm awake!" And she was. Wide awake. So I thought what the hell. I let her get up. A few weeks ago she'd sampled some sparkling cranberry juice at Trader Joe's and loved it, so I bought a bottle. It had been in the fridge ever since. Before the drugs completely obscured my cognitive abilities, I decided we should crack open the bottle and ring in the new year an hour early. I told her we were going to drink some bubbly and taught her how to clink glasses and say, "Cheers!"

Unfortunately, all I've heard today is, "I want to drink bubble-y." Why do I foresee this demand being made in public and a Child Protective Services involvement?

Speaking of surreal public moments with Clara ...

Yesterday afternoon, I left Clara Jane at home with B. to get a little peace and quiet, and perhaps some quilt backing. Hancock Fabrics has a huge annual New Year's sale and I have some restocking to do.

While sitting at the pattern book table, this is what I hear: "Clara, please leave that alone. Clara, stop that please. Clara, will you please come back here? Clara? Clara!"

Needless to say, this caught my attention. While my daughter's first name is Clara Jane, I do often shorten it to Clara, especially in public situations in which I'm trying to prevent Clara Jane from running amok.

I'm not used to hearing other people echoing my words like that. I looked up, not sure if I'd see a wayward toddler or a really rambunctious 90-year-old because let's face it - 90% of the Claras in the world are close to 90-years-old and the other 10% are toddlers with parents riding the Old Name Train.

This one was a toddler, about six months older than Clara Jane. Given name? Mary Clara, shortened to Clara in situations requiring fast communication. Which, let's be honest, is all situations when you're talking about a three-year-old.

To make matters even weirder, she looked like my Clara - huge eyes, round face, same haircut, dimples in the same spots on her cheeks, big grin ... except she was as olive-skinned as my Clara is fair, as brunette as mine is blonde, and as brown-eyed as mine is blue-eyed.

And it freaked my shit out. No wonder I had to go home and drug myself - if you wandered into The Dark Side and met the dark version of your own child, trust me, you'd need medication, too.

My Clara has always been ahead with her verbal skills. This Clara spoke like a six-year-old. At the fabric-cutting table, she had this conversation with an employee:

Dark Clara: Hey. What's that?
Employee: It's a cutting mat.
DC: Why do you need a cutting mat?
E: So I'll know how much fabric to give.
DC: Hey. Are you a grandma?
E: Yes.
DC: How many grandkids do you have?
E: Eight.
DC: What are all of their names?
E: rattles off eight names that may or may not have been real
DC: Hey! I didn't know your apron has three pockets in it!

I abandoned my 99-cent patterns and $1.98/yard flannel on the table and fled the store in an attempt to outrun my future. But I can't outrun it. I can only medicate myself against the onslaught of constant interrogation that surely awaits from my daughter in 2007.