If you ever catch me romanticizing this whole parenting thing, please remind me about tonight—or, really, any night from the past few (or 20) months. It's 10:45, and Greg and I have been trying for three and a half hours to get Nora to sleep. I finally gave up and left her to cry after she started pointing at the floor next to her crib (where there's a camping pad, which I've been sleeping on for at least part of the night for the past several weeks) and said, "Lie down. Mommy, lie down."
I guess we know who's calling the shots around here.
She's now in her crib, crying out with just about every request she can think of—ranging from, "Downstairs!" to "Cheerios!" to "All fall down!" (as in "Ring Around the Rosie").
My friend Sujata likes to point out that all this awake time gives Nora more time to learn, and that argument seems to have some merit. Last week as I was eating my breakfast, I heard a sweet little voice saying, "One, two, three …" all the way up to eight. I had absolutely no idea she had a concept of numbers, but there she was, at 7 in the morning, counting bottles of wine. That's my girl.
A couple of days later, as I was changing her diaper, she said, "Friday, Saturday, Sunday!" Again, the focus on the weekend makes me sure she's mine.
Another post will be dedicated to how the older of our children is going about reminding us that parenting is not for the meek, but I have a ThermaRest (and a stubborn little girl) calling my name.