After lunch Carmen signed sleep. She was ready for a nap.
So how long until she says, "Hey, I'll see you guys later, I'm going to bed?" What? Never?
She signed socks today, but the sign isn't entirely right. Carmen's socks looks like a drunken version of shoes.
Today I watched Carmen play on the porch while I fed David. She spun around in circles until she got dizzy, wobbled around for a little bit, and then spun around again.
Meanwhile David is just being David. He can sign shoes, but still prefers to talk with his eyes. He spends his days moving his toys from one room to the other, emptying the pantry, tickling and otherwise bothering his sister, throwing the rubber mulch onto the concrete porch floor, dropping things in the bathtub, upsetting my laundry hampers and rubbing his face onto my legs until I pick him up and we hold each other eye to eye, heart to heart.
Carmen wants to be rocked all night to weather the rough seas of her anxieties. David craves that same type of physical contact all day. When he feels the chill of fear or uncertainty, he runs to me, looking for security and a respite. When he marches off to deposit a toy in the bathtub he stops and turns the corner. "Are you still there?" he seems to ask. He does his work three doors down and then runs back into the living room, burrowing into my shirt.
Yes, David, I'll be here. As long as you need me here, I'll be around.
Meanwhile, I'm going to bed. Tomorrow I need to look for a little peg man. We found the green one (I was having dreams about losing him, I was so upset!), now we're missing the blue.
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