We’re home from our trip and we’re gradually recalibrating our little gem into a regular human being again. For awhile I suspected that she might have been swapped out with a goblin during the flight, but changeling or no, we’re retraining her to bleat like a goat (in between well placed shrieks) for LESS than 23 hours per day.
Oh yes, we had fun.
Picture this: a cozy living room with plush couches, warm wood tones and quiet tv in the background. Someone is gently strumming a guitar, someone else is softly singing. A dog is snoozing on the floor, stretching occasionally when the heat comes on with a hush. A baby is alternately playing and dozing, how could she do anything else?
Now picture this: a two-year-old streaks through the kitchen, whisking a cold whirlwind after him, shouting at the top of his lungs and flinging a small semi-truck from side to side. A six-year-old trails behind you asking if she can read to you, if you’ll read to her, if you’ll be here tomorrow, if she can have an orange, if you’ll play a game, if you’ll sit with her, if you’ll do this puzzle, if, etc. Despite the fire, through the steam of your own breath you can see mom rustling in a pile of paper muttering and crying. Father smokes his pipe as you discreetly try to wave smoke away from your baby’s face and jostle her to soothe her inconsolable crying (no wonder).
Is it a surprise that she’s still bleating at us and crying 2 days later? I’m sure it’s our fault for living quietly and that we’ll have our own brand of chaos as she gets older. In the meantime, I think we’re both a touch scarred by our niece and nephew, my mother’s increasing craziness, my grandmother’s memorial, my aunt’s crazy diet (seriously kids, apples and celery do not provide enough nutrition to live) and my brothers’-in-law utter disrespect for social conventions.
There’s more to this, of course, but for now, suffice to say we’re getting back to standard.