The wonder of Lucy

Things my youngest baby has done recently:

Two days ago, she was marching around the house, inexplicably chanting something that sounded like, "No more peacocks in my room!"

Yesterday and today, she took off the caps to all of her no-mess magic markers whose ink only appears on special paper, and put them on the tips of her fingers. She is wiggling her fingers, entranced by the colorful caps and then tapping them on every surface she passes.

Any time I do something for her: get her cereal, put the marker caps on her fingers, make her a PB sandwich with extra pb, she says, "T'ank 'ooo, Mommy. You the best. Mommy. Evah!"

When she has to go to the bathroom, she waits until the last minute so that she jitterbugs the Pee-pee dance, legs crossed, holding her butt, yelping out, "Oh no, Mommy!! I gotta go PEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Daily, she makes some mess with her Cheerios, but then always says, "I sowwy for the big mess, Mommy." Then she gives me a kiss on my cheek and all is forgiven.

When I ask her to pick something up, she stomps around, shouting, "I not do dis...EVAH!"

The kid eats as if she's got a tapeworm. I can't wait for this growth spurt to end.

She was born 18 months after our son died during the delivery. Part of me knows that I can deny her nothing, but I don't want to turn her into a spoiled brat. Her whole existence to me is proof of something almost miraculous: that I could go on and have another child after burying one; that life goes on despite how badly we are hurt; that we can pick up the pieces of our broken souls and live, love and feel again.