It's Friday morning, and it looks like this post is going to be typed with one hand (like many of my posts these days). I'm dividing my time between composing and holding a very fussy Melina.
Maybe she misses her Grammy and Grandpa, who boarded a plane for home yesterday and won't be back to hold her for several months. If the cascade of drool covering both little fists and running down her shirt is any indication, she's teething. She could even be reacting a little from her five month shots, with so many deadly childhood diseases waging their wars in miniature in order to build up antibodies in her little immune system.
Whatever the cause, if I put her down she's inconsolable. Melina's nasal, operatic scales radiate pure grief, unlike Carrie's drier, throatier mad wail. Since any of my kids crying is nails-down-the-chalkboard on my mommy hormones, Melina has been my morning companion as Carrie bobs her head in the Bumbo. We've made the coffee and oatmeal, shooed the cat off the master bed, and watched Devon play with his new cars on the screened porch.
I really need to get up and do battle with the two textures of childhood: Crunchy and Sticky. Devon enjoyed the chocolate Santa from his Christmas stocking little by little, but the crispy parts unsettled him so he spit them out and flicked them on the floor like peanut shells in a Texas Roadhouse. Then, he learned how to unscrew the cap on his sippy, making a round watermark of apple juice on the floor around his booster seat.
Since I didn't want him to walk on the tile until I could clean up, I relaxed my rules and let him take a toddler snack-catcher cup of goldfish crackers into the living room. I know they're supposed to be for mess-free feeding, but Devon uses his more for entertainment. He shakes it upside down until all the goldfish fall out into his lap, and then beams and picks them up one by one, holding them up to the light to inspect them before crunching down with mouth wide open. Since I was feeding Carrie and Melina their cereal, I shrugged helplessly and watched it happen. The carpet is now spread evenly with a thin layer of artificial cheesy yellow cracker dust. I'm usually a barefoot girl in warm weather, but I've taken to wearing slippers because walking on my own floor makes my feet feel dirty some days.
Toddlers do generate a lot of mess; the five second attention span is probably to blame. Carrie and Melina's socks need sorting after Devon dumped their bin last night. He loves their socks; his favorite thing to do is to pull them off their feet, go to the nearest doorway, and stand in the threshold tossing them up in the air again and again. Every doorway has five or six mismatched socks on the floor, lying there like they're part of the feng shui.
The tree needs to be taken down before one of the kids starts eating needles again. It was a great tree and the kids loved it, but I am so OVER it by now. Worse than that, every time I pass the pen I smell poo and I don't know where it's coming from. I've picked up each of the kids, the cat, and most of the toys to smell them, and I can't figure out what's to blame. That's not a good sign, seeing that yesterday I changed seven poopy diapers.
I better get started, but I look down at Melina and she's sleeping with that newborn open-mouth-breath that puffs on my neck and tickles a bit. If I move her, her face contracts into a grimace and she whines in protest.
"Oh, Melina, it would take a village to raise you," I raise an eyebrow and whisper. It's my favorite saying, the one I repeat to maintain my composure when I start to get tired. Carrie and Devon each have their fussy moments and things that set them off, but if I am ever diagnosed with permanent hearing damage it will be Melina's fault.
Not that she isn't a joy to parent. When I lean over her to pick her up, she arches her back and practically levitates into my hands, squealing with joy that I've finally noticed her. She's starting to stand in her exersaucer for a few minutes a day, bicycling her feet like she's ready to run across the floor. When I carry her around, her hand drifts up and traces my jawline lightly like she's trying to memorize the feel of me.
I suppose it's natural for me to feel most protective of my littlest one, the active but fragile one we almost lost when her heartbeat plummeted during the delivery. I feel like she needs me most of all, and it feels good to be needed even when I'd rather be pushing a mop. Most importantly, Melina reminds me that nothing is more important than sitting down and holding the baby.
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