Kitten

After deciding that tone of her noises upstairs had changed from “awake and having fun” to “awake and getting torqued,” I went upstairs and rescued Kitten from her crib. She can climb out — or at least, she used to be able to, before she got sick. I think she’s forgotten how, which is why she’ll sit there, the things she wants only a few feet away on the Ottoman, out of reach, taunting and tantalizing her.

The things these days are primarily binkies, a/k/a pacifiers. She has several of them, most of the same variety (symmetric and round — she’s never cared much for the “naturally formed” binkies). Katherine has taken to having on in her mouth as a comfort thing most of the time. I’ve tried to discourage this, but not to the point of having her wail and moan and gnash her little white teeth about it. I just try to spirit them off the floor when she abandons them there.

Our goal is to super-saturate the house with binkies, however, so that any time we need to find one, one is at hand, precipitating out of the solution. We suffered a serious binkie loss during our trip to Faerie, and we’ve had to restock.

A quick diapie change, and off we go down the stairs. She’d managed to get her “wake up in the morning and slurp some” sippie cup out of her bag, but had dropped it under the crib. Now I recovered it and handed it to her, and she toddled her way to the stairs. Always willing to take a finger, a few steps down she realized she had handicapped herself, and handed me the cup, too, so that she could grab the bannister.

Downstairs, and off like a shot. You’d think she’d run for the living room, where she rarely goes, but instead it’s off to the Gated Community in the breakfast room. She quick pulls out some toys, and then runs over and hands me the engine to the train that her Aunt Mary gave her. We have the little track set up on the hearth, and have refrained from running it any more than necessary, largely because it has a little “popper” in the smoke stack which, after a few minutes, leads adults to think about infanticide.

I endeavor to restrain myself, as I set up the little train and set it to popping, little animals in the cars spinning and bobbing and rocking.

A few minutes later, she’s come over, tapped me on the leg, and urged me over to the fridge. Ah. Hungry. I plop her up in her high chair, and break out the yogurt.

And what’s really cool is, when she’s done eating yogurt, she’ll make “Pay attention to me” noises, and hand the cup and spoon up to me. Keen.

While her vocabulary is still limited, she’s definitely learned about the “talking” thing. She keeps up a fairly steady chit-chat, and is clearly telling us about stuff. I just wish at times I knew what. Time for that soon enough, I suppose.

While she’s up there, it’s time for her antibiotics, nearly finishing up from her illness when we drove home. She’s on Augmentin, and she cares for the taste (something citrissy, I gather from Margie) much less than the bubble gum of the Amoxin, though both are largely the same medication. Still, after making an initial face, she’s a very good girl as I squirt the rest of her teaspoon in.

A bit of left-over chicken tender — and, of course, some of the Cheerios which I spread like feed corn on her tray — and she’s up and running, ready to get up. Caper, frolic, Daddy-read-this-book, climb up on the rocking chair and play with the rocking Ottoman. As the train pops its way along more and more slowly, its AA batteries grinding down.

And Playhouse Disney, of course, with her friends, Rolie Polie Olie, Stanley, PB&J Otter, and so forth.

Life with Squiggy. It’s good.