cute story

Zola thinks her name is "cute" or alternatively "you." Every once in a while, she will call herself Zoe or Zola. But most of the time she will argue indefinitely with you that her name is "Cute."

The other day, I caught her using something as a step stool to get the scissors off the kitchen table. The step-stool she was using? Her baby sister. She was standing with both feet, full weight, on Viola's tummy. Viola was just giggling like a complicit accomplice and was not harmed in any way during the telling of this story.

My hair is too long. Not only was I able to create a mural of Michael Jackson on the bathroom wall with the hair that falls out during a single shower but I'm now worse than living with a dog. My hair is everywhere in the house. We found one long hair hanging out of Viola's eye. It was wrapped around the back of her eyeball. (I was able to gently massage it out.)

I asked Zola if she needed a diaper. She bent over, touched the floor in what yoga calls the "Downward Dog" and subsequently farted on command - five times (while laughing her head off.) She makes more fart jokes than anyone in the house. Also, on a similar note, I mastered my chili recipe using dry beans and spices (not canned beans and packets) - very proud of myself.

I think Zola has upwards closer to 50o words now. And Viola is sitting up for nearly a half-minute by herself now. It is so hard to see them grow up so quickly and not be home with them more. I get the cranky, tired final moments in their day -- dad gets the happy, playful, joyful moments (but also the monotonous daily grind associated with meeting their basic needs hour after hour throughout the day.) Wish there was a way to spread out their care between us better.

1 comment:

damhandiman said...

fah que, la vue.