It's been a heck of a day, the dishes are still waiting for me, unwashed, on the dining room table, and I'm typing through a haze of exhaustion that is truly palpable. I was highly tempted to write some string of grumpy words as my post and leave it at that, but I do have some Abby cuteness to share, so I'll attempt to muster up at least enough energy to get that done.
Tom has a silly habit of "screaming"' with no sound when he thinks something is really cute. He'll open his mouth wide and whisper-scream with his eyes wide open, as though the pitch has been set so high that it is undetectable by human ears. The other day, he did this in response to something Abby came up with at breakfast, and he and I both were amazed to see her mimic it exactly when she came downstairs.
I was sitting with Mia, who did something adorable (for the life of me I can't remember what), to which I reacted. Abby rushed over, adopted her Baby Voice, said, "Mia, you're so cuuuuute!" and proceeded to whisper-scream like the best of them.
Michael and Abby both drive me nuts with their tendency to hide and crouch behind the metal pole in the basement: Abby, because she's setting a poor example for Michael; Michael, because the free space on one side is narrower than the other, and he often tries to come back out the "wrong way," getting his head stuck in the process. When he snuck back there today, I wearily muttered, "C'mon, Michael, don't go back there."
Abby took this as her cue to parent him, grabbed at his arm and said, "Michael, you need to come out now." After a beat, she added, "Because it's time for me to have a turn."
Abby is now on her fourth day of a miserable cold, and though she appears to be feeling better today, she's snotty as ever. She's been pretty good about coming over to me, when asked, to get her nose wiped, but she developed a defiant streak by the late afternoon, just as a fresh wave came coursing out of both nostrils.
As I vainly called to her, she smeared the offending mucous first onto her hands, then across her cheeks. I cringed, but she looked rather proud of herself, and declared, "Abby is a messy child."
She then proceeded to run across the room to me, wait at arm's length just long enough for me to grab a tissue and then run off again before I could make use of it. Eyes sparkling, she giggled from her new, position, safely out of reach, and said, "Abby has a very messy face."
It's quite the quandary, being so simultaneously irritated and amused at the same time. But such is life when you live it with a gal like Abigail.