It was one of those days from the very beginning. And by beginning, I mean 3:30 am when the little one woke up and wouldn’t go back to sleep for another two hours despite offering her a bottle, her pacifier, rocking her or letting her cry. It started all over again–at a more normal time in the morning–when my son decided that everyone should be up and turned on the light and shouted into his dresser drawers for the red shirt with the truck on it. (Said shirt was in the laundry.) I shuffled out of bed and down the hall to see the two girls squinting in the bright light and wishing I could go back to bed.
The day continued in that vein until I pulled some books from the bookshelves and sat in the middle of the living room rug. My son loves reading books and will generally sit with minimal picking at his sisters and listen to the stories. My daughter wanders in and out of the story, but there’s likely to be less drama with her brother out of the equation. The little one perceives me as a jungle gym when I’m sitting on the floor and dives over my arms and across my lap, grabs for the book and generally gets in the way.
After ten books, they’d settled down some. I picked up Pat the Bunny. The twins loved it and so did the little one. It was the first time I’d seen her get into a book. She patted the bunny, played peek-a-boo with Paul, giggled into the mirror, tried on mommy’s ring and waved bye-bye to Paul and Judy. Peering over her shoulder, I could see her giggling face in the mirror and I couldn’t help but laugh myself.
It started to turn the day around. Sure, a Chernobyl-level meltdown times three was in the offing as dinner approached, but it was tempered by the memory of the pudgy fingers waving at the book.