Classic

In the car on the way to the store:

Me: Shoot! I forgot to bring water.

Stella: That's OK. We can drink our spit!

Our Gingerbread

Little Rowena is getting to the point where she calls for me and it sounds like a big kid is calling me. She can articulate, "Mommy!" so clearly it startles. I find myself frightened by the urgency until I realize it's the voice of a tiny person stuck in her crib. And she wants out. And how.

There's nothing quite like her chubby little hands wrapped around my neck pulling me in for a smooch on her pillowy-soft, slightly damp little baby lips. She's so sweet when I say, "Can you say, 'I love you, Mommy'?" She says, "mmm hmmm."

"Say it then."

"Mmm mmm Mama."

That's all she can manage. It doesn't matter. I can hold her tight and breathe in her soft smell, her sweet, chubby neck and rub her sweet cheeks. Nearly two and I can harldy believe how time has flown. It's both wonderful and heartbreaking. Entirely cheesy and true. I just want her to be little and cuddly forever. But be able to speak and get her own water without spilling it all over the floor.

We call her Gingerbread. Our friend came up with this when she saw a picture that she took of Rowena on New Year's Eve. Little Ro's hair has a glow, her chubby face is straight on in the photo and she is neither smiling nor frowing, just being. But now this moniker, Gingerbread, has stuck. We like to use it in her most tragic moments of the day.

"Awww, Gingerbread, you fell down."

"Awww, Gingerbread's getting tired."

"Awww, Gingerbread has an owie. Let's kiss it."

Let's gobble her up. She's irresistible.