The tiny terror

My husband is basking in the sunshine of Tennessee. As I write this, it occurs to me that I don't know which city in Tennessee. Nor do I know which hotel. He says it is a conference on pediatric critical care, but really for all I know it could be a long-planned rendezvous with an up and coming Nashville singing sensation. It's called marital trust, people.

Both girls were up at 5 a.m. today. It wouldn't smart so much if I didn't think that both of them probably could have been coaxed back to sleep were it not for the presence of the other. Thank goodness for the soothing balm of Diet Mountain Dew.

I'm starting to panic a bit at the thought of my baby turning one next month. She is taking five or six steps by herself and has graduated to being solely fed with finger foods since when you come at her with a spoon of puree she whacks it out of your hand and smears the droplets through her hair. She does not enjoy being thwarted in her pursuit of mischief. In the mornings, when my eyes are too dry and sleep-deprived to allow insertion of my contacts without feeling as though little glass shards are embedded in my corneas, she always makes a good run toward snatching my glasses of my face. When I tell her "No," she looks at me with venom, winds up her arm as high as it will go and thwacks me in the face in irritation. She is trying out some new words, most of which bear absolutely no resemblance to the English language. My dad was holding her yesterday and I said "Molly, say CAT." She did her patented move of smiling widely and looking at me like I was asking her to calculate the square root of pi. My dad noticed and gently mocked her, "Mommy, I have no idea!." She looked at him, smiled sweetly and said "CAT." I think she was really saying "In your FACE, Opa. Underestimate me next time and I'll cut you."