The words are starting to come.
"Purple, bus, truck."
Maybe, like the rest of us, your motivation has been in hibernation mode.
"Fox, put, car."
This morning you pointed urgently to the top of Dada's closet and said "hot, hot." We rolled our eyes, as we are wont to do, and explained that the ceiling was not a heat source. Then I noticed all of Dada's baseball hats. Oh. Hat. Right.
Two days ago, Dada asked you to say "Ma" AND YOU SAID IT. Just like that. And oddly, oddly, I now kind of miss "Bup."
Most things are referred to as "da" or "dis" or "dat."
In 48 hours we will be on our way to Florida! In preparation, we started to sort through some of your springtime clothing this afternoon. Short-sleeved, flowered onesies, striped shorts, toddler sized khaki capris. As I was ooohing and aaaahing over the clothes in your bedroom, I heard a scratching sound coming from the hallway. I went out to investigate.
You were sticking a fork into an electrical outlet.
I almost peed my pants. Seriously. Scooped you up into an "oh my god thank god oh my god" hug and didn't put you down for a long time.
The situation in Japan continues to worsen. Workers in Wisconsin have been denied the rights they deserve. The NY Times is no longer going to offer news for free. The world is becoming a flat screen that fits inside a purse. The shifts are physical, spiritual, intellectual, constant.
I wish the ordinary could protect us from the cataclysmic.
You will wake up from your nap. We will go to the doctor. You will cry. They will give you Tinkerbell stickers. The ground will continue to reveal itself. We will pack: a ladybug T-shirt, shoes that expose open patches of skin, JIF peanut butter on-the-go packs, monkey pajamas, a bib, a bowl, a spoon. We will try to manage the days as they come. Familiar objects that fit inside a suitcase.
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