How I miss "storm clouds," those furrowed little brows that change the expression on her face into a rainy pocket inside an otherwise sunny day. Annabel's moods are still as fickle as the northeast weather, but her new words make the climate changes unmistakable.
"NO pishers, mommy. NO PISHERS!" she shreaks and runs around the table, turning her head and shielding her eyes. Seconds earlier, she'd been happily playing with crayons and singing songs.
We've been laughing to ourselves lately as we observed our little kumquat turning into a toddling teenager.
The new morning ritual involves her lounging around in her crib, unwilling to rouse herself from light sleep. She's awake, but she would rather lay on her back, bounce her heels on the mattress and have 'latte' boy (or girl) bring her "hot milsh" in bed. We usually have a few minutes to rush through breakfast before it's time to load up and head out for the day. Her weekday motto seems to be: I'll get up when I'm good and ready.
Yet on weekends the springs of her crib start to squeak and her melodic voice begins calling out for "MAA-ME. ... MAAAA-MEEEEE as soon as first light breaks. No rest for the weary.
And now, it would seem, there will be fewer pictures as well.
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