My almost-four-month-old Tiny Grand Girl sleeps in her boppy on the couch next to me, a morning snooze after Breakfast #1.
I’ve made a mug of hot tea, which I doubt I’ll have time to drink before “stuff” happens. I’ll end up throwing in ice cubes later.
I have mere moments to rattle off this blog before “stuff” happens.
Diaper stuff.
Bottle stuff. Breakfast #2, Brunch, Lunch, Lunch #2, etc. This tiny creature might be part Hobbit.
Storybook stuff. Flamingos and dragons were a hit last night.
Soon her eyebrows will raise in a tease. Does she want a bottle or another tour of the house, including the fish tank and BiBi’s curio full of vintage glass tropical birds (which BiBi has imagined packing up and storing in the attic until Tiny Grand Girl is 18)?
I could complete the blog properly if I stick Tiny Grand Girl in her swing in front of the television. Tune in to a popular baby show celebrity who wears a pink shirt and denim overalls. But that program makes BiBi’s one last brain cell want to wither and die, so I only use it as a last resort. I do so need that last brain cell to function…
So we do storybook stuff. Perhaps today will be puppies and grizzly bears.
Tours of the house.
Make eyeballs at the orange cichlids and gray algae suckers.
Blow bubbles and watch them pop on the dining room table (which needs to be washed anyway—two birds, one bubble).
Practice lying on our bellies (and hope BiBi can get up off the floor).
Bottle stuff.
Diaper stuff.
All the stuff Tiny Grand Girls require.
Come to think of it, this is how the writing life has been going for years. I cram in one more batch of words strung together before stuff happens. And another batch and another… All around big stuff. Little stuff. Planned stuff. Emotional stuff of life roll after life roll.
“You think we’d be good at it by now. The cramming.” Little Miss Muse lands near the top of the boppy, staring at Tiny Grand Girl.
I thought Little Miss might end up being jealous of the baby. There’s been none of that, more like camaraderie. A dangerous one brewing, I think. I sense these two will be getting into all kinds of… stuff as Tiny Grand Girl grows.
“Don’t get glitter on her,” I warn, trying and failing to shoo Little Miss away. “And yes. We should be good at cramming projects around the stuff.”
“I won’t get glitter on her,” Little Miss bends to kiss the baby, glittering her forehead.
I take the burp rag and wipe it off.
Little Miss Muse moves to the side and starts blowing bubblegum bubbles. “I don’t want her to smell like grape gum.”
“She won’t.” Little Miss pulls the gum from her mouth in one long string before putting it back and blowing another bubble, studying the baby. It pops over the boppy. The baby smells like grape gum now.
Little Miss moves to my lap, nudges the laptop to the side, and reaches for the blanket.
“Don’t wake her up. Blog’s not done.”
“I won’t wake her up,” Little Miss Muse grins. She tickles Tiny Grand Girl’s toes, waking her up.
Those little eyes flicker. Those eyebrows raise. Her mouth turns up in a grin—that, by the way, looks very much like Little Miss Muse’s mischievous smile.
Stuff’s about to happen…
