The little angel went through a period during her ear infection when she would scream as though the hounds of hell were nipping her toes whenever she saw the bathtub.  We thought perhaps she was ruined for life, would have to go directly to stand-alone showers by the age of two, never able to partake in a reality show featuring a jacuzzi.  However, the end of the bubble gum-medicine parade coincided last night with the return of her love for the bathtub, if not the feeling of warm water being poured directly on her head.

As I made "ribbit, ribbit" sounds and lambasted her with water from her new bacteria-laden friend, the squirty bath frog, I wondered what she thinks when she is in the bath.  I can't wait for her to be able to talk.  Does she wonder why she's subjected to it a few times a week?  Is she cold?  Does she like watching the rivulets run between her fat little toes?  Do baths feel good to her?  How about the towel?  Is it too scratchy?  Fun?  Does she realize her hair is wet or dry, or that she even has hair?  What do babies think about when they are bathing? Usually adults stew on their problems.  She doesn't have any Kafka-esque scenarios to ponder.  WHAT??

We went up to Iowa City this past weekend to celebrate my 31st birthday.  Yes, I am no longer cutely 30, but now officially, older-sounding, "in my thirties."  It's like entering first grade all over again.

The trip was good.  At one point, two-year-old K. got ahold of our car-starting fob and pushed the panic button, unbeknownst to the six adults in the room who couldn't figure out where the thief was on the street outside attempting to steal our truck right out from under our very noses.  In another memorable moment, the little angel escaped my view for twenty seconds and managed to knock over a full beer can and cover herself with its contents. That earned her a lavender-scented bath, and a good time was had by all. It was a nice trip. Nice to have other kids and other parents around, people who are not surprised by a whining baby with a cold or the fact that yes, she does get up at 6:30 regardless of when you go to bed.  Nice to not have my kid be the only one making noise at the dinner table.  That's the first time Lily has spent more than a few hours with other children, and it was great!

The one thing we did discover is that we should never, ever give her Triminic in the wee hours. It apparently has the effect of crack cocaine on the little angel, giving her boundless energy and the notion that she can hurl herself unscathed through a plate-glass window. Boy, that was fun, from about 1:30 to 4 in the morning on Friday.

Let's see.  What else?  I've reconfirmed that working for a tax-prep company does in fact mean that from about December through about April will really suck every single year. It's unfortunate, these also being the cold, sick-infested, bad-weather months that the general population doesn't like. Working for a tax-prep company gives it a special new suckiness, though, that only those who have experienced it can really appreciate.  It's awesome to have all the hair on the back of your neck stand up for months on end.  Yee-haw!

Oh, on that note - we had one of those 360 degree reviews here at the office. I got all my verbatims back, fearing to see what my co-workers really think of me. I'd already had a fight with a dear friend yesterday morning, so I was NOT looking forward to a little constructive criticism an hour later. Turns out most people think I talk too much - CAN YOU IMAGINE???  This just doesn't seem like something that goes with a budding writer and teacher AT ALL.  Someone who likes to talk?  Someone who tells a lot of stories?  FOR SHAME.  As you can see, I'm less than impressed with my constructive criticism.  At least they didn't say I'm stupid or a slacker who never works. I suppose it could be worse.  Arrogant and chatty are not exactly the stuff of serial killers, after all. 

Ah, Benadryl, let me sing thy praises.  You swooped down on gossamer wings and blessed my little angel with eleven hours of straight sleep.  You bequeathed your good tidings upon my beloved and me, by default.  I woke up feeling like a new woman, even though I am still experiencing the lingering stomache of the passing Evil Virus.

The pediatrician recommended a teaspoon, which is the same amount of omoxicillan she gets. A teaspoon looks like an awful lot in one of those little infant syringes. I lingered outside her bedroom door after administering her dose, worrying for ten minutes or so it WAS too much, and she would be giggling her crib all night, drunk on antihistimine.  But no, she reclined on her Sealy Posterpedic-like propped-up crib mattress and bathed in a pool of her own snot all night long. Gross, but who wanted to wake her up to mop it off?  What's a little chapped skin compared to sweet, blissful sleep?

The little angel is still sick. I apparently caught the virus that caused her ear infection, and now I understand why she would stand screaming in her crib at 2 a.m., begging us for a DNR with her little, crocodile tears and high-pitched wail.  Yesterday was the sickest I have felt since labor (a memory forever burned in my mind - all that stuff about "forgetting the pain" is crap).  My throat was so sore my voice sounded funny, and after that passed, my abdomin was seized with cramps like ten tiny men stomping up and down on my innards.  It was hellish.  At one point, my beloved (who had graciously taken the day off to care for our diarrhea-covered child while I mourned my birth in my own bed) saw me attempting to fill the little, blue, newborn bathtub with water (the little angel has now equated her big-girl bathtub with ear pain and screams whenever she sees it), doubled over in pain.  He sent me back to bed.  I felt useless, but was happy for the excuse to go moan pathetically in peace.

Last night, the little angel would sleep approximately an hour and a half before her congestion got the best of her, then she would stand up in her crib and wail until we came in.  She was so tired - the minute you cleaned her nose and put her back down, she would try to sleep - but it only last another hour and a half. For the past two nights, I have had to invoke the 5 .m. rule (in which the babe gets to come to bed with us after 5 a.m. in a beautiful example of Ferber-inspired parental rationalization) to get at least two hours of sleep before preparing for the day.

When I took her to bed last night, or this morning, as the case may be, I noticed she was not sleeping about ten minutes in. I looked down in the wee morning light to see these two blue orbs peeping up at me from mid-chest level.  She had been just staring at me for who knows how long. Staring with her little "please, Mama, make it go away" eyes.  (sob!)  All I could do was pat her head and reassure her that this would be nothing compared to junior high.  My poor princess!

The little angel has her first ear infection. I suppose we should be happy she made it to almost ten months before she got one.  She has the goop for the eyes and the dreaded Pink Stuff.  She does not like either one, but she has more control over the pink stuff - she can always vomit that back up if she doesn't like it.

Nothing breaks my heart more than to go into her bedroom in the middle of the night and see her sitting up in her crib, crying.  Not wiping away her tears, not hiding her head, but crying the way only little kids and the truly despondant can cry.  Someday in the future she'll learn to shield me and others from seeing how sad she really is, but for now, she just cries. 

Today we are going to sign the second extension on our contingent bid on the house up north. This Old House still hasn't sold, and I guess it must not be worth what we thought it was.  I don't quite understand that, because it appraised at near what we are asking for it before we painted it and added landscaping, but the entire exercise of trying to sell the house has made me realize IT IS ALL RELATIVE.

Take those poor people out in California.  We know the price of real estate in California is akin to the price of chocolate bars on Gilligan's Island.  If you're Mr. Howell, great, but everyone else is snacking on coconuts.  Think of the people who lost their homes in the mudslide.  It was horrible beyond belief for them, but they may have, MAY HAVE gotten an insurance payout.  Their neighbors, though - hoo boy.  I am having trouble selling my house because the neighbor across the street has a half-pipe and a Ryder van in his backyard.  What if it were 500,000 tons of mud that could fall on my house at any time? 

The value of homes = relative.

Now that the little angel can both crawl quickly and pull up to standing, things have changed in our household.

Sybil is no longer safe.

She'd grown accustomed to deftly sidestepping the little angel's grasping hands, and she even sought out the angel when she was eating for a nice pet.  At least she now understands "nice petting."  Gosh, that sounds nasty.  I didn't mean it that way. I'm talking about a baby and a cat here, people.

Anyway, two nights ago we released the little angel to the kitchen floor, and she immediately took off toward Sybil, spitting and squealing with delight as she pumped her little arms and legs like a new gym member on January 2.  Sybil started lazily walking away...until the little angel started gaining. Sybil jumped on the bench in the foyer. The little angel pulled up and reached for her.  Sybil panicked. I actually saw it on her tiny cat face.  It was like the time I Pledged the dining room table before she jumped on it. 

Sybil has learned to seek higher ground.

The little angel has always loved baths.  Last night we FINALLY remembered that we wanted to give her a bath in her new, inflatable, almost-big-girl tub, which sits in the actual bathtub, as opposed to the kitchen sink.  There are numerous advantages to using this tub, one being that some of the splashed-out water will now be located very close to a drain and the other being that more toys fit in this tub.

I don't know why it took us so long to make the transition. Probably the same reason I just took the bumpers off her crib two days ago, even though she's been able to pull up for a while now.  The shock of how fast her first year is going has not worn off.  You hear people say that all the time...but of course you do not believe that a year spent working harder than you have ever worked in your life could really go fast.  But the first year of the little angel's life has been akin to childhood summer camp - every day took forever, but the weeks flew by.  Before you know it, you are crying your eyes out because the person you didn't even know the month before is leaving, and you can't bear it.  It seems unbelievable to me that I didn't even know the little angel this time last year, and now she has gone and transitioned from a flesh purse in a carrying case to a little person who hugs and babbles and wants to WALK?

This weekend we took the little angel to the Great Big Frickin' Mall of the Great Plains.  It's an "indoor outlet," which is a loose translation for "where the Worlds of Fun people winter."  My beloved (quite rudely) pointed out while we were there, "There are some really ugly people here."  We are snobs.

However, there is a Carter's outlet at the GBFMGP, which we hit hard.  There is also a bright, shiny, noisy carousel in the middle of the food court. The little angel, who had been contentedly thumping her new tennis shoes against the stroller in tune to "Sunday Bloody Sunday" until that point, grew feverishly excited when she saw it.

This is the part where parenthood gets even more fun. We haven't gone shopping with the little angel - except for Target runs - since it got really cold.  And she wanted - no, NEEDED - that carousel to be part of her shopping experience. 

I paid my $1.50 and put her on the horse. Like a little English royal, she promptly grabbed the reins and began flapping them wildly, ready for the hunt.  When the horse started moving up and down, she squealed and flapped some more.  She is born to ride.

My beloved was disappinted because she didn't wave to him during our ten or so trips around the world.  I tried to point out that she doesn't really even get the concept of waving at all, but I don't think it helped.  I think he realized she's one day closer to her high school graduation.  I can't wait to take her for a pony ride.  Yeehaw!