Sunday, December 19, 2010


They descended upon us with the stealthiness of the sun. First I heard the squesh squesh squesh of little bear's diaper, and then there was the cheery self-talk that piggy pie does. Sometimes it's a song. Sometimes lines from Annie or Hercules. Sometimes rumination about her stuff versus Ava's stuff. Sometimes her Barbies are conversing. But it is constant. There are likely sensible connections that tie the chatter together, because for all her dramatic tendencies, my oldest is a sensible girl, but it's near impossible to follow the flow because she peppers her soliloquies with questions and demands. "We are hungry. I want the different colored cereal that looks like little frosted flakes. I saw Daddy eat it." "When I was a baby, what was I on Halloween?" It's just after dawn, kid. I am not even sure you're mine.

The other sits on the floor, jamming to "The Muffin Man" on her baby iPod, occasionally chirping "What???" "What???" like she's an axe chopping wood.

So close, they dance in the same circle of activity. Emma brushes Ava's hair out of her face absentmindedly. Ava leans on Emma affectionately while she inspects her pajama zipper. But then the poles shift, and they repel each other, one feels called to inspect the fibers in the carpet, her little eyebrows raised just like her dad. The other needs to plan her outfit for the day.

That's what they do. They wake me, control my activities, changemefeedmesitwithmewatchme. When they are sated, they flitter away.

And that's how I found myself watching Miss Spider this morning. Bleary, weary, confused and happy.