My Vice-President Kamala Harris action figure doll just arrived. Technically it’s a Hanukkah present for BB.
Don’t underestimate the little kiddos. After weeks of hearing about Dump and Biden, BB heard us mention Harris. She said,
“A woman? I only heard you talking about two guys.”
“Yes, a woman vice-president!”
“A woman!” Her face lighting up.
It can’t come too soon. Dump in the white house is like my children playing in their rooms unattended. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I know it’s no good.
RB continues on her path of showing me how different two sisters can be. Seems like a combo of genetics and birth order.
BB made me work for my sleep until I gave up and started bed sharing. Then magically at 11 months she didn’t need me anymore and then unmagically at 18 months decided she did need someone. At which point she had night weaned herself and Captain was in the bedsharing, mat-on-the-floor rotation.
RB shows zero signs of not needing me for sleep. And is nowhere close to night weaning. A couple months ago she was in the mode of a snack every hour or so. I broke her of that.
When I did that with BB, she ended up rolling away from me and going to sleep without touching me.
Which in retrospect is very much like BB, she’s not a big hugger or into physical contact, even pre-pandemic.
RB is the opposite. When faced with no boob to suckle herself back to sleep with, she does not roll away. She rolls on top of me. If I let her, she will fall asleep with her cheek pressed against mine.
This is impossibly adorable, sweet, loving, the best, a little bit of heaven on a good day at 7pm. At 4am, ANY day, it is another story.
When she’s zonked and I start to slip away, her arm flies out and clamps down on my shirt like someone rising from the dead.
The king-size, floor mat means nothing to RB. We might as well just have a twin. And if I was feeling the slightest bit nostalgic: like someday my kiddos won’t even live with me nevermind sleep on my head, BB has other ideas.
We get off the phone with my mom. BB places her hand on my arm, looks me in the eye and says,
“I’m sorry your mom left you.”
“Thank you, but it’s kinda the other way around.”
“What do you mean?”
“When kids grow up, they want to move out.”
“Not me! I want to live with you forever, can I live with you forever?”
“Sure. RB too?”
“No, she’ll move out.”
Of course she will.
BB informs me that her future children, who will be living with me as well, will be named: Taylor Swift, Laurie Berkner and Buttercup.
Sounds like I’ll have two grandchildren destined to become musicians and one will be a pony.