This renovation is starting to make me sick. Literally. In fact, I’ve completely lost my voice, as a result of the mountains of dust floating through the air. No amount of vacuuming or dusting seems to help, and even Kenny has developed an irritated cough.
Laryngitis is never a picnic, but imagine trying to explain to your one-year-old son why you can’t sing or read or even talk to him. Today we moved into my parents’ house for a few nights, and during the car ride over, Kenny kept calling, “Mama? Mama?” and I couldn’t answer. During our playtime today, I couldn’t sing when he kept asking for “Row Row!” and I couldn’t make the sounds to read “Swim Duck, Swim!”
So aside from feeling like my vocal chords have been ground into sausage, and aside from the fact that I can’t yell, “Dudley, drop it!” when the stealthy canine trots by with Kenny’s sippy cup in his mouth, all is well. Kenny continues to develop into more and more of a little ham every day.
His latest comedy routine involves torpedoing his wiggly body away when I’m trying to change his diaper, dress him, put his shoes on or wipe his face. He can throw his mere twenty-three pounds into a kinetic fifty, easy. Today, while trying to change him on the bed, he writhed away, crawled to the head of the bed, stood up on the pillows and cackled triumphantly, bottom proudly and defiantly bare. When I lunged at him, he scooted away with the finess of an eel. I nearly had to sit on him to get the huggies firmly attached to his behind, and when it was all over, we were both covered with desitin. Only then did he lay passively and sweetly, as if to admit defeat, and reach up to to touch my face and coo, “MaaaMeee.”
If only I could answer him back…