|An old digital "painting" from a photograph of the kids at Hanford Bay, NY|
But, sometimes I fall into my reverie a bit too hard and cause myself a migraine. The world turns gray and I land on the couch with a case of the vapors. Those are the days when The Baby, who has for months fulfilled her promises of napping, decides to retract her guarantee of a few mind-free, hands-free moments. As the pressure swells in my brain so do her destructive tendencies. By the raucous clanging and thumping from upstairs, I can hear that she is dismantling her crib. And, I know that all hope has departed for a few minutes of recovery. I bring her to the living room with me where I hope that she will "play." But, she does not. She, instead, perches on my stomach and incessantly pokes me in the face. And laughs.
When I take to the floor to find a quiet way to amuse her, she whines to be brought back to the couch. She is cute. But, she is not cuddly. Or sympathetic. By the time my triptans finally kick in, she is as calm and as peaceful as a little lamb. She becomes a focused scholar- absorbed in stacks of board books, not wanting anything to do with me. Someone needs to tell the little brain that she has things all backwards. To which she will probably reply, "Are you certain that I am the one who has it wrong?"