2 weeks, give or take.

21 Aug

I crawl from a sweaty bed, head pounding with the forecast of rain, stumble down the stairs, all arms and robe, trying to find a direction that makes sense.

Thus spoke Vivian.

Non stop. Until bedtime. Even a little past bedtime, her nightly visit around 1am, sure to be followed by one around 6am. The constant nattering, the “Hey Mom!” MOM! MOOOOOOMMMMMM!” that echoes in the house and my brain. My eyes begin to dart frantically around, searching for that small soft spot of silence which I believe I left someone around November 2002.

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I love my darling daughter, but lord! The girl needs to learn to shut her mouth once in awhile. Constantly yapping and being naturally clumsy got in her way today, with a few bounces off shopping carts, freezers and people. All the while the little trill that is her voice singing through.

When she was a baby I’d stare wistfully at her, wondering what she dreamt about, what she was thinking. Now I know, minute to minute, and frankly, most of the time it’s not all that interesting. Or, it’s full of questions I have trouble condensing for an overly bright 6 year old, stuff like why tornadoes will never come here or why cold hurts when it goes up your nose.

Vivian, you’re sweet like key lime pie and smart like a whip. But you’re exhausting your mother. More reading, less talking.

*************

My second born on the other hand, has been irritable, moody and just generally not very much fun to be around. She climbs into bed each morning with me, looking for a snuggle, but when it’s close to 80F in the bedroom, the last thing I want next to me is something small, sticky and smelly which will stick to me. It’s all I can do to not push her off the bed, and instead I must bribe her-there’s new yoghurt in the fridge! Your sister is on the computer, here’s your chance to watch Treehouse!

She won’t eat and then complains that her belly hurts. She’ll eat, but only what SHE wants, which turns on a dime and could turn into a fake crying fit, something she’s learned from an unwanted source we’re now trying to rid from our life. She’s clearly growing, and slightly terrified, and we’re all growing a little weary of the entire routine.

I think she’s also looking quite forward to Vivian returning to school. Having her here has cut into her own playtime.

Of course, peanut butter makes everything better. I have no idea what we’ll do for her school lunches.

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She’s smart, she’s wily, she’s gorgeous, and she’s driving me insane.

Frankly, they both are. I’ve been humming “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!” and rushing Vivian into picking out a first day outfit and all that, my loss of someone to give a shit that I had new shoes for the first day meaning I obsess just a little over her having new things, even if it’s just for that one day. It means something to me, her having a “new” outfit, not a new to her one, and she rolls her eyes and says “Yes, fine” because she really doesn’t care but she loves her Mommy and she does it for me, as I finger the fabric of her bubble skirt, or whatever it is, and wonder what I wore for the first day of Grade One.

Come October, we register Rosalyn for Kindergarten and I’m excited and terrified and more than a little sad that we’re already here. On one hand it’s great-being able to trust them to pour their cereal and milk, to trust Ros to find her channel for TV or Vivian to color so well with her markers. But I thought it would go slower. I thought time would hang in the wind for me, just for me.

Of course, time hangs when it’s 98C with the humidity and everyone in the house is snaky and bitchy and rather smelly. I’ve had to keep the girls away from each other since apparently, sibling torment is an itch one just HAS to scratch. I watch the nostrils flare and the chins jut out and silently groan. It’s gonna be one wild ride.

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2 Responses to “2 weeks, give or take.”

  1. Marcy August 21, 2009 at 9:30 am #

    I understand, even though mine’s an only and much younger than yours.

  2. Jennifer August 21, 2009 at 12:31 pm #

    But they’re cute, so they’ll survive.

    I feel your pain, there are similar scenarios here.

    For the fake crying, which was also learned elsewhere – I fake cry back which usually results in giggling and they go find someone else to torture or something else to destroy.

    If that doesn’t work, I look at her hard and tell her that she needs to produce real tears before she’ll get sympathy from me. Mine aren’t that good yet.

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