Chessa can ask for cookies and milk – “CUH-KEES AN MUK?” she says.  And if I get anything other than the mini Oreos that her aunt brought for her, she says.  “NO. CUH-KEES CIN-EE BOT” (I want the cookies that Cindy bought). 

She can tell me when Craig goes to work – “DADDY WOK,” or that she wants to go to her grandmother’s house “NA-NEES HAUS.”

She can tell me what she wants to do when I get home from work.  “CHE-CHA DWIVE CAW” (Chessa drive car).

She can answer questions, “Baby girl, how was your day?” “GUD!”

But say “I love you”?  Forget it. 

We’ve been practicing our “I love you”s for a few weeks now.  Asking her to say “I love you,” to her daddy before she goes to bed or Cole when she wakes up in the morning or tell me “I love you” for no good reason.  (As if carrying her for 41 weeks, going through labor, GIVING HER LIFE and keeping her alive for 20 months isn’t reason enough.)

All of our efforts have been pretty much for nothing, occasionally getting a begrudging “LUFF-EW” just to shut us up. 

A few nights ago, I was making dinner while Craig was in the living room with kids when I heard Chessa chattering and saying “LUFF-EW.  LUFF-EW.  LUFF-YOU!” 

Not having heard any coaching taking place, I yelled across the kitchen.  “Is she saying ‘I love you’?”

“Yeah.”  He answered with less enthusiasm than I would have expected.  “To her blocks.” 

OK then.

Two weeks ago, I brought the wee one in from the pool, stripped her down and then realized I wasn’t quite ready to dress her yet. 

So, I plopped her in my bathtub.  It’s a big space, there are thing she can play with (after I moved the razor and the candle that sits in a glass holder) and if she pees, it’ll be easy clean up.  I did not know that this split second decision I made to try to help clear up her diaper rash and give me a minute to get out of my own wet suit would cause my child to see my bathroom… my sanctuary, my quiet space, my happy place… as her personal playground. 

But, boy oh, boy…. does she….

I fought it for a few days.  Said no.  Told her the toilet paper was not a toy.  Rationalized that there was much more room to crawl around outside the bathtub.  Explained that the trash and the toilet brush were “ick”.  But you know what?  You can’t really rationalize with a ten-month-old child and all of my calm voice explanations and stern admonishments got me nothing but pouty lips and tears.  So, I gave up.  And now, she spends her early evenings playing in the bathtub while I sit, okay lay, on the floor of the bathroom. 

Happy baby = Happy mommy.

C got this teapot from her cousins over the weekend, and the cuteness that followed just had to be captured.  I don’t know if she is dancing or trying to fly, but she’s having a damn good time. 

There’s a new game around our house. One that gives me bruised knees and sore palms, but also squeals of delight followed by belly laughs from the little one. 

She crawls away from me and looks back over her shoulder.  On my hands and knees, I chase her. 

“I’m gonna get you.” 

Her eyes gleam and she takes off again. 

But this time I wait and hide behind the couch, the door, the wall. 

A few steps later, I hear the tap-tap-tap of her crawling stop as she wonders where I am.  She sighs.  And, turns around.  Crawling back to where she came from.

When she gets close to me.  I say, “PEEK!” and she gasps and squeals. 

She crawls to me for a hug and a kiss.  Sometimes sitting in my lap long enough for Patty Cake or Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes.  Then she pushes off and crawls away again.   With another mischievous look and a grin.

And we do it again. And again.

My great-grandmother (God love her) was one of the nosiest old ladies you’d ever meet.   We would pull in the driveway and before we could even get out of the car, we’d hear her on the phone talking about the latest gossip among her circle of friends and in the “Valley” where she lived.  She’d talk about who was driving too fast on their way to work, whose kids got in trouble at school, who was fighting with their husband or who forgot to return a library book back in 1954. 

If it hadn’t been for the hearing problem that caused her to yell instead of talk, she probably could have done some good for the CIA or FBI or some other agency that needed to know when people in a small town sneezed. 

So now, when C’s curiosity peaks and sends her beelining for windows, stretching up on her tiptoes and peering to see what’s going on outside, I chuckle and call her Edna. 

Her great-great-grandmother would have been so very proud. 

In almost every way, C is a daddy’s girl.  Just this weekend, he wanted to get a few more minutes in the pool late in the afternoon.  So he handed the babe to me and started out the door.  Until… she screamed.  Big crocodile tears and sobs that said “Daddy, how could you give me to HER?!” 

My little drama queen. 

So? Craig stayed inside, lying on the floor, letting his baby girl use him as her personal jungle gym. 

I mean, for real.  This child is her father’s daughter.  She looks like him, she acts like him, she loves him best.  However, once in a while I discover things that she absolutely gets from me. 

I don’t remember the exact moment, but I know that Craig and I had not been dating very long when he discovered that I was ticklish.  And, guys?  Not just a little.  I am belly-laugh-squirmfest-try-hard-not-to-pee ticklish.  And Craig?  He knows it.  And I swear on all things holy that nothing makes the man as happy as finding a reason to tickle me until I can’t breathe. 

Make a snide comment about his hair in the morning?  Tickled.  Roll my eyes when the Pirates are losing a baseball game?  Tickled.  Let my toes graze his calf if we’re sitting on the couch together?  Yep, tickled.  Walk up the steps in front of him? Tickled, poked and grabbed.  It never ends.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to hold back the giggles and through a clenched jaw mutterd, “it’s not funny, it’s effing irritating.”  Only to have him tickle me harder and collapse into giggles. 

It’s actually sort of unfair.  This kind of treatment. 

However.  I’ve seen why he gets such a kick out if it.  Because as it turns out, C is ticklish too.  When I run my finger across the bottom of her foot, her toes curl up, she pulls her foot away and giggles.  When I blow raspberries on her belly, she squeals and grabs fistfuls of my hair.  And, when I tickle the sides of her belly, she squirms and laughs, giant belly laughs.  It. Is. Hysterical.  And I love getting those laughs from her. 

So, child of mine.  I apologize.  First of all, because you got the ticklish thing from your momma.  And second, because I plan to use it against you just so I can hear those beautiful laughs of yours.

My daughter’s mouth runs constantly these days.  From the moment I get her out of her crib, to the time right before bed when she’s sucking contently on the paci, she’s babbling and talking.  It’s a constant whirl of ba-da-ga-ada-mpf-ag-wa-ma. I’m sure in her head she is telling a pretty good story complete with details about her big teddy bear, her new Winne the Pooh or complaining that her mean mommie won’t let her chew on electrical cords.  Regardless of whether the person on the other end of her conversation understands her, every one talks back to her.  The cashiers at the mall get a kick out it, her aunts and grandparents all smile and babble to her in return. 

Mostly her ba-ga-fa-de-pfftshh-a-ma-da-da sounds are just nonsense.  But once in a while, when she says da-da-daaaa  it’s because Craig has walked into the room or she sees his picture. 

So, I’ve decided that I want to hear mama.  I gave the child life, dammit.  I feed her on demand, have changed a bazillion and three dirty diapers, give her more kisses than a person can possibly count and make sure she has cute shoes.  And, I want to hear mama. 

So now when she’s babbling I say, “C, say mama.” 

She looks at me and says “dada!”  

“No, punkin. MAA-MA.”  

“DADADAAAA!” 

 ”No, sweetie, listen.  Like this.  MAA-MAA” 

“DADADADADADA!” 

And then Craig giggles.

Last night I was getting a rather grumpy baby girl ready for her bath.  I sat her down in the exersaucer while I filled her bathtub and collected her pjs.  And she whined because clearly it’s more fun to try to throw herself off of my bed than be stuck in the exercauser with toys to distract stimulate her.  As her whining got a little louder, urging me to HURRY UP, DAMN WOMAN, I hiccuped.  (I wasn’t drinking I swear.)

And she giggled. 

So I laughed at her.  And she giggled some more.  And I laughed until I hiccuped again.  And she laughed harder.  With every hiccup that came from my mouth her giggles got louder.  I swear we were like two  undergrads stumbling down College Avenue on the way home from a frat party.  Me with the hiccups and her with the belly laughs. 

For the record, I’m blogging this because her belly laughs are usually saved for when Craig blows raspberries on her belly or does the “pants dance” and this one was ALL. MINE.  ’tis a shame I cannot hiccup on demand. 

————-   

Also?  Have you read Joanna’s blog, Raising Madison?  This internet is a crazy place, where on a daily basis I share in frustrations, milestones and everyday moments of other bloggers.  Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry and sometimes I’m truly inspired.  Joanna is one of the rare people that brings all of those emotions.  She has a daughter who has hip dysplasia and she has faced some other sucky things in life.  But instead of whining or venting her troubles, she has used her blog to share information with other families whose children are also facing the surgeries and casts that come with hip dysplasia.  ANYWAY!  She is up for a Scholastic Parent & Child Blog award and while I’m usually begging for votes for myself on Top Baby Blogs, I’d like to ask you to vote for her in the special needs category (it’s all the way at the bottom). She deserves it.