Being woken up to nurse a baby in the middle of the night gets kind of old after 17 months.
But Esmé's figured out the secret to making her Mommy smile anyway. How can you help but smile when instead of hearing crying, you hear the insistent words from the baby's mouth: "Baba eat, baba eat?"
This Mommy is not a very good swimmer. Ear infections meant childhood years of sitting on the sidelines while others swam. I have no problem getting on a whitewater raft with the possibility of landing in the water, but I have no desire to simply jump in the water for the joy of it.
Yet. We're working on it. So Daddy was encouraging me to dive into the pool, with me showing all the trepidation usually reserved for bungee jumping or sky diving (which I don't think would scare me in the least, by the way, provided there is no water at the bottom).
Along comes little miss Esmé, shouting "Dive! Dive! Dive!" while pointing into the pool in front of my feet. And she tried to get Groban into the act, too, shouting the same thing at him. Good thing he knows the rules about no dogs in the pool . . .
I never got the dive right. But Esmé has no inhibitions and is happy to step into the water, as long as she's holding Daddy's hand. If she can do it, so can I. Some day.
Never underestimate the reasoning powers of a toddler. Esmé was fascinated with my body cream container, so I showed her how you dab a little bit on your fingers and rub it into your feet. She happily started rubbing it into my feet. Ahhh!
Along comes Daddy, who sees the state of my feet and tells Esmé, "Don't touch Mommy's feet! They're dirty!" (No embarrassment here, folks. TIA - This is Africa!)
She immediately walks over to the bathtub, pulls down a wet washcloth, and begins to wipe my dirty feet! What a girl!
And if you think MY feet are dirty, folks, here's a photo of Esmé's feet today.
Those wonderful words, "more" and "mine," continue in full force, sadly. Here is Esmé insisting that the camera is "mine." Should I give it to her?