Our children talk all the time. It feels like there is never a time one of them is not opening their mouths and letting a cataract of words spill from them. (Although as I type this, Adelaide is sitting silently at the table, reading The Neverending Story and eating a bowl of oatmeal, and Cade is down for a quiet nap. Atticus, on the other hand, is currently taking a not-so-quiet "rest time.") And half of that time they're contradicting whatever it is that I'm saying. Caedmon and Adelaide in particular appear to be vying for the crown of Tsar or Tsarina of All Knowledge; I could tell you that the sky is blue and Caedmon would say it's really more of a gray-blue, while Adelaide would inform me that it actually only appears blue to our eyes. THE SKY IS BLUE, CHILDREN, ALRIGHT? Sheesh.
Babies, on the other hand? Especially sweet, squishable, lovable babies like my darling, darling nieces? They can't contradict anything I say. As far as they know, my opinion is their opinion, just the way it should be (I have no idea where our children get their contrary streak, fyi).
Or this one:
See how Norah is gazing soulfully into Adelaide's eyes? It's obvious she's trying to communicate what her mouth cannot: That she loves her oldest girl-cousin and is desperate to move to Iowa so she can be with her all the time. I won't presume to narrate Adelaide's expression, as I'm sure whatever I say will be capital-W Wrong, and I really don't feel like hearing why for the next three days.
You could say that the look on our newest niece Elliot's face is one of shock and perhaps stunned fear, but I would posit that she is stunned- stunned that she's been alive for six weeks and is just now experiencing the joy to be had when being held by yours truly. Oh, her parents will be hearing about this.
And here's Norah clearly telling us that although she is a smiley, cheerful baby in general, she always holds a little something back with the world at large; that extra affection is reserved for her Daddy. Plain as day.
And here I can tell just by looking at her that Norah is utterly blissful at being ham-handedly loved by a five- and three-year old boy.
Now tell me: How obvious is it that I'm going through some serious medical-grade Baby Withdrawal this week? Because I feel like I'm being pretty subtle about it.
Tomorrow? TWO YEAR OLDS.