This afternoon hasn't been going so smoothly, however. I thought I had hit the jackpot when both kids went down for a nap at the same time. But, alas, just as I was about to dance a jig, Molly was visited by the Poop Fairy ten minutes into her slumber, and that was the end of that peaceful respite. Frankie was never bothered by her own excrement or other bodily fluids. In fact, she resisted being potty-trained vigorously, insisting "I just like pooping in my diaper." She probably thought it was rather warm and insulating. But Molly, like her cousin Sylvie before her, finds that poop really interferes with her ability to relax in her crib. She will crawl around for hours reeking like she's got a rotten cauliflower tucked in her pants but if it is sleeping time, her sensibilities become acutely delicate and she won't stand for it.
After both naps went bust, my dad came over and we all went for a walk in the brisk November slush. But when we returned to the house, my father committed the unpardonable sin. He left without giving Frankie a hug and kiss. Try as I might, I could not stop the floodgates of indignation and sorrow that erupted. She stood at the front door, tears streaming, hands waving impotently toward his departing van, yelling "HUGANDKISS, HUGANDKISS, HUGANDKISSSSSSSSSSS!!!!." And thus began about an hour of weeping and gnashing of teeth over the slightest problem, with a periodic plaintive "Opa forgot my-sniff, sniff- hug and kiss," until I was about to lose my ever loving mind and was forced to turn to the housewife's best friend, and I know you are thinking Valium, but I actually mean the television. It is amazing how fast those tears dried and Opa and his affections were thrown over for the cold comfort of cathode rays.