Little Talker

The other day, when Gilly was fussing because she was already in her carseat and I was gathering up some things to get us out the door, I asked Allison Clare to go check on her, and then I overheard AC rocking the carseat and saying sweetly, " 's okay, Gin Wose. Mommy be right back. 'S okay. Munchkin's here." For all the ornery in my strong-willed little Ally Cat, her heart is often in the right place.

Lately, she has been singing this:

Twangkle, twangkle, litt-n sar,

How I watch you, what you are,

Up-abow-a world so high,

Like a dad-n in a sy,

Twangkle, twangkle, litt-n sar,

How I watch you, what you ARE.

Actually, her pronunciation has gotten better, but I just sort of wanted to preserve the phonetics. She has the will of an adult, or a teenager perhaps, so I sometimes almost forget how very little she is. When I remember that our battles (over things like putting on shoes to go outside) are occurring between me and someone who weighs 27 lbs, the desperation of her struggles sometimes makes a little more sense. Though I do sometimes wonder at it--like tonight, when she called down from her bed in a sudden, dire agony, "PWEASE, PWEASE, PWEASE, MOMMY COME HELP, MOMMYFIXITMOMMYFIXIT" and when I arrived at her bedside, I discovered the cause of all of this . . . was that the snap had come undone on the little flap that covers the zipper at the neck of her PJs. Oh, my daughter, my little Fee-fighter.