“Oh, Annie’s evil. She’s evil to the core.” Said Dad, proudly.
Annie is happy to see her dad and I in the morning, but REALLY happy to see Paul. We usually set him down in her crib or just outside, and they screech and smile at each other, and Annie hugs his neck and says adorable things like “Hey-o Missa Paul guh MORning!” It’s the best.
The water dispenser in our refrigerator has been broken for a couple of weeks, defying home remedies. Yesterday Bryan paid a certified GE repairman $137 to poke ineffectually at it and conclude, “I guess you outta buy a new refrigerator.” Then repairguy left, and Bryan fixed it himself. I love this man.
At dinner, a certain look comes over Annie’s face.
Bryan: “Annie, are you pooping?”
Bryan: “Annie, are you pooping? It’s okay if you are.”
Annie: “I pooping yasssss.”
She repeated this half a dozen times when she figured out it made me laugh. It was almost a letdown to discover that she had not, in fact, pooped.
I heard Annie say my name yesterday for the first time. We were in the car; someone called; and I talked on the speakerphone while Annie chirped in the background. At the end, my fellow caller said, “Bye, Leslie.” Annie, little parrot, echoed, “Bye-bye Yesyee.”
Previously placid Paul has become quite the rowdy fellow. Even during nursing, which used to be a cuddled-up dream state, he has taken to heaving himself around, preferring to eat on his hands and knees, like a piglet grubbing around the forest floor. Both of us connect with our animal natures. I find myself relating to the mother mammal on a nature show, blinking stoically while her young growl and scramble over her teats.
Would everyone. Just. Stop. Screaming.
Thank to Charly’s coaching, Annie can now say with perfect precision, “Hot. Mess.”
Sometimes we tell Paul His Name Is Robert Paulson.
Annie knows the word sparkle, apparently.