wish list

I would tell you of the new sounds Alice is making, the new AB-AB-BAB-BAB and the new UH-UH-UH-OHHHHH babbling.

I would tell you about watching Alice eat a rice rusk for the first time, and how fantastic it was to watch her feed herself (jamming fist in mouth, trying to get that last bit of mushy rice cracker goodness into her awaiting gummy smile).

I would tell you of the weird CAT conspiracy in our house - how both of them have decided that our lower kitchen cabinets contain the CAVE OF INEXPLICABLE AND UNEXPLORED WONDERS and they simply MUST get in there - resulting in the telltale thwap thwap thwap sound of cabinet door being swatted open with a furry paw at all hours of the day and night. I would also tell you about the further results of these explorations (namely: yours truly screeching in horror and fear when I later open a cabinet door and have a spelunking cat leap out at me, tiny lamp afixed to furry head).

I would tell you about a slice of fudge I am consuming piece by piece, much like a little mouse. If the mouse were a mid-30's mother wearing track pants.

I would tell you about the number of remedies I've tried with Alice: icy ice cold water, cold washcloth, chilled teething circle, frozen washcloth, teething tablets, mommy finger, daddy finger, baby fist.

I would tell you about the remedies that have worked: NONE.

I would tell you of walking the floor with an inconsolable baby - trying everything, nothing working, feeling hopeless.

I would tell you of the moments I've witnessed of incomparable tenderness, flashes of memory that are too sweet to detail: Chip padding the hallway in bare feet - Alice in his arms - he is whispering to her in the softest voice.

I would tell you of the desperate attempts we've made to give Alice peace. Attempts that have given fruit to a few smiles, a few brief glimpses into the Alice we know. She is trying so hard, I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice.

I would tell you about finding Chip and Alice sitting on the driveway last night: he in a lawn chair, laptop firmly afixed to his knees; she in her car seat, industriously chewing her stuffed yellow star (creatively named "STARRY" by yours truly).

I would tell you about Chip's upcoming business trip to Montana, and how Alice and I are going to be tagging along.

I would tell you about all of this, every little bit of it. But I'm too tired. I've been up since 2am with a teething baby.