This morning, I felt certain that Mae had been kidnapped. I woke up at 8:30, and immediately, the fear overcame me. The monitor was on, the sun was well up, and I heard nothing. This was frightening, because the wake-up process usually begins around 6:45. I knew it didn't make any sense, because if a bad guy wanted into the house, he would have to break a window, or shoot off the locks with a revolver, and exhausted and pregnant as I am, I couldn't have slept through that. I lay in bed rationalizing, and feeling sick with worry as the minutes ticked away, waiting for a peep-- one of her large variety of wake-up sounds. The peep is nice. It says: "I'm 30% awake, and you have approximately 15 minutes before I stand up in my crib, throw Welby on the floor, and start the squeal." (Welby is Mae's stuffed giraffe. Morbidly matted, grey in color, and named after our stake Patriarch, Welby Ricks.) The squeal is another wake-up sound. It is not as bad as it may sound. It's not a "Eeeeee!" squeal, but more of a "oooOOOooh!" squeal. A sound you might make if truly impressed by someone's fabric selection, or gymnastic skills. The squeal says "I am standing up in my crib, and I have thrown Welby on the floor. I am
not out of sorts, but you have about 5 minutes before I start the fuss." The fuss is not my favorite. It says, "I have been awake for about fifteen minutes now, and I know that you can hear me, and are clinging with futility to the last few threads of sleep, but it's over mom. Face it. I'm not going to fall back to sleep. And neither are you. Come and get me, woman." I try not to let it get this far, if I can possibly embrace my fate sooner, and roll out of bed at ungodly hours. That's why this morning was so alarming. To sleep in until 8:30! While it may seem like a blessing, it more likely means that your child has been kidnapped. I lay there, experimenting with the criminal mind, developing quieter strategies for baby snatching. Digging an entrance into the house, but leaving the carpet over the hole, using lasers to remove a section from the wall, sneaking in during the day, and hiding in the cellar until night. This roused me. I threw back the blankets, raised myself up on my elbow, and was rubbing my eyes with an urgency appropriate to the situation, when finally, I heard it-- to my sweeping relief. The peep. I smiled, and stretched, said a prayer of gratitude, and then got into the shower. I'm pleased to announce that I got to Mae before even Welby hit the floor.
This little number shows off nicely my newly discovered skill of shirring. (Translation, the bunchy elastic stitchery around the waist and sleeves. It adds a bit of boho to anything!) Please note my adorable model's little pigtail. Sure, it looks a little post-nap, but hey, that is a pigtail, friends!
These little green pants were supposed to be capris. I guess I over-estimated the length of Mae's legs. And at this point, my model was really starting to lose her patience, and so I indulged her a little, and let her maul the camera. This was ample payment for her sufferings.
Ruffly Amy Butler samari pants never hurt anyone. I think I'll wait until she can walk to put these ones on her. And maybe until she grows three inches taller, too. (Yes, Mae is kissing her reflection passionately in that photo. She's a little Narcissistic, I'm afraid.)
And Mae has two teeth. Count 'em and weep! Plus, she's cute.
