I know how to get a kid to sleep.

Reed came creeping downstairs after I put him to bed tonight. 
“What are you watching?”
“The vice-presidential candidate debate.”
“Can I watch?”
“Sure.”

I think he was asleep in under a minute. =)

p.s. earlier tonight as we started to brush his teeth, Reed started what he called a “language pattern”. One, Dos, Trois, Four… . That’s right: counting while rotating English, Spanish, French. 

Lying in bed this morning, staring at the ceiling fan and waiting on the sun to decide whether or not to rise, I hear a tiny, dulcet voice call from her crib:

“I dragon. I draaaaagon!”

Cutest. Dragon. Ever.

I have a sick baby. She's sleeping on the floor right now, cuddled up underneath a blanket. This is the child that has begun refusing naps, though she's not quite two. This is the child that can wake alertly at midnight if you creep uber-silently into her room. And now she's sacked out under her blankie next to the couch, bathed in the dull light of an overcast day.

Being sick stinks.

I mean, it's bad enough for us grown-ups. But we at least know what's going on. She doesn't understand why she can't have her big cup of milk, why she keeps throwing up the little bit of water she does have, why she feels so lousy. Last night, she just sat in the warm water of the tub–one of perhaps half a dozen little dips following visits by the vomit fairy–quietly poking floating bubbles with one extended finger.

Hopefully in a day or so, this will just be a bad memory. Or perhaps not even that. It's amazing how quickly kids move on.

Stinkbutt.
Cute-zilla.
Princess Poopy Pants.

I’ve got lots of names for my little girl. But tonight I’m rocking her to sleep on my shoulder and little baby fingers play sweetly, carelessly on the back of my neck sending an emotional electricity shivering up my spine. Tonight she’s my little angel.

But I’m still pretty sure she’ll have a poopy present for me come morning.

I was carrying a sleeping Reed in my arms tonight. He’s growing up so quickly. The baby fat is all gone and now he’s a sinewy little boy. It makes me ache in a way that is hard to really grasp, much less explain. It occurred to me tonight that it won’t be too much longer before he’s too big to carry and hold (much less too old). At forty pounds, he’s still easy for me to pick up and carry. But at sixty? Seventy? Rebekah, as well. Some inevitabilities of life make me quake. To have a child yet not be able to carry him as a child …

Who knew that the growth of a child meant the growing up of the parent?

Tag team. I was awakened by various members of my family at 2:18, 3:05, 4:00, 4:24, 5:06, 5:30 and 5:57 this morning. I am tired. That is all.

 Note: I suppose this is the price one pays for being the center of the universe.

Well, the weather has gone to shit here. Wind, lightning, heavy rain and rotation. I suppose that’s the price you pay for having a sunny, 75-degree day the first week of January. Yay, global warming.

I’ve been keeping an ear out for the tornado siren. I packed a ‘go’ bag to supplement our disaster box in the basement, seeing as how I don’t think Reed was even half Rebekah’s age the last time we opened it. Somehow I can’t picture her in size 2 diapers.

So, diapers, shoes, jackets, plastic bags, fresh batteries, flash light, some food, cash, keys and cell phone are in a bag next to the door. Oh, and bubbles, too. If you’re ever stuck someplace with preschoolers, you can never have too many bubbles.

Sweet little angels are sleeping right through all this. Hopefully, the front will move through reasonably peacefully and I won’t have to pluck them from their slumbers to spend the night in the basement.