I'll admit it. We didn't always vacuum every day (or week, for that matter); but we do much better now that Abigail's unrelenting curiosity married her budding mobility.
So how did she find a rusty old staple to eat? It hasn't been more than a day, or maybe two, since the vacuum scrubbed that very patch of floor.
Thank heavens she hasn't figured out how to use her tongue to swallow solids.
She did it! She really did it!
And I wanna brag about her.
Monday was an exciting day for us. Delores defended her thesis at last, and stood triumphant after a grueling hour-and-a-half. Some of the professors on the panel were quite flattering in their praise of Delores' efforts.
Abigail came along, and spent most of the time being chased away from all the tasty textbooks in Dr. Gast's office by Delores' good friend Anne. Afterward, we enjoyed some long-awaited Aggie Ice Cream.
It was kind of funny, after several waves of denial washed over us, to say, "It's done....Only three rounds of revisions left before it is finished." Three rounds of revisions, but at least no more defense.
At any rate, we're understandably happy. Next time you see Delores, give her a hug from all of us.
Folks say that teaching a few simple signs to a child can help them learn to communicate, and thus reduce the frustrations of toddlerhood. So it is that we have a few signs that we use when we talk to her. "Mom", "Dad", "Milk", "Diaper", "Food", "Up", "Was' up, Dog?"... Only the essentials.
Well, of all the goodness, she picked up on one!
Milk, she said to Delores yesterday morning. She was hungry. Milk, she said to Delores in the afternoon when, again, she was hungry.
Hearing about it from Delores made my day!
We visited the Dorton clan for Easter. There were easter eggs. There were crafts. There was a wonderful Sabbath service.
And as we were leaving, the nieces invited me to join in their game with the nephews. Princesses and Bad Guys, they called it. The girls were all princesses. The boys were all bad guys, "except," they explained to me, "for you. You're a good guy..."
The game resembled steal-the-flag; only there wasn't any flag. The princesses would get caught by the bad guys and put in jail, which the boys studiously goal-tended. The only way to get out was to be saved by another princess or, even, the good guy.
I saved Isabel from the crowd, lifted her onto my shoulders, and ran from all pursuing bad guys who wanted to capture the princess, and pursuing princesses who wanted their turn. It only takes a half dozen princesses for a good guy to realize how woefully out of shape he is... What made it worse was saving the oldest for last. Who thought of that maneuver?
When all was said and done, I joined my two most precious princesses, and started the journey home, unable to hide the smile on my face. I love my two families.
Abigail is mobile. Dangerously so. This message was driven home to us when she found Delores' scriptures. The tale is a good one to tell. Delores had turned to the computer for a moment to e-mail her thesis to herself. This is her method for backing up her work. In the time it took to submit the email, Abigail traversed enough of the room to get to the scriptures and spell their doom.
If mom likes them so much, then I think I will, too. She began to playfully tear out pages and fist them into her mouth. I suppose you might say she was "feasting on the word" (2 Ne. 31:20). Really, it is a heartache to see such a well-loved set of scriptures in such a state, but I cannot seem to suppress a smile.
It has been a remarkable perspective shift for us. We placed furniture in front of the bike, vacuumed, rearranged end tables, vacuumed again. She has taken interest in the power button on our little server. It glows, so why wouldn't she? She is so very curious, and we are very unchild-proof. I have a feeling that there is a great adventure only barely around the corner.
O give me back my prophet dear, And Patriarch, O give them back;
The Saints of latter days to cheer, And lead them on the gospel track.
But ah! They're gone from my embrace, From earthly scenes their spirits fled;
Those two, the best of Adam's race, Now lie entombed among the dead.
These words repeat themselves in my mind sind my dear prophet passed away on Sunday. Gordon B. Hinckley is a man unlike any alive, and had a tremendous influence on my life. He was my prophet most of my natural life. From him, I learned much about living a truly Christian life. I miss him tremendously. I am glad that, at last, he can be with his wonderful wife again and rest from the labors of this life. He was very good to her, and they seemed very much in love.
Farewell, my dear prophet. May we meet again in happier times in the home of our Lord.
Abigail is over five months old now (Hurray!). She has discovered that she can roll to the nearest plant and wreak havoc, that she can vary the pitch of her voice, and that things like telephones and keyboards have buttons for pushing. It's really quite a delight.
We are also pressing ever deeper into the question, When do we feed her solids? I had no idea this was a controversial battle-ground well worth avoiding, but we're here anyway. We sat at the table, Abigail taking an interest in the food on our plates. I suggested we let her taste some. Delores was doubtful.
We tried giving Abigail a taste of a few foods that we were eating. The first was the avacado. I knew the instant she got the flavor in her mouth that I should have had the camera ready. Her face was wrenched up in nauseous shock with an expression that seemed to scream "That's not MILK!" It was only moments before I caught it all in a handy cloth.
Then, thought I, something milder should do the trick. We had warm mashed potatoes handy, and a put a little on the spoon and into her mouth. That's when the gagging started. "I said, that's not MILK!!!" The gagging throes were so intense I traded the cloth for a bowl in case she succeeded in vomiting her whole last meal.
Delores looked at me with an I told you so look which, in fact, she had. I suppose we shall be content with breastfeeding for a while longer.
