It's just a shoe

Today, as I was nursing sweet Nora and looking around the disheveled place we call home, I noticed Fiona’s shoe. I should say up front that it’s just a no-name athletic sneaker, lined up along the side of our sofa with the heel on the sofa and the toe on the carpet a-la-Toot Toot. Next to it were various sandals and shoes of both Ian’s and my own, undoubtedly kicked off hurriedly before scurrying toward the next feat of parenthood.

Nora and I sat there, we two, and I contemplated the size of Fiona’s foot. What a big girl we have. What a contemplative, insightful firecracker she is! She’s the big sister everyone hopes to get—including Nora from the look of things thus far. So what is it about that propped up sneaker that makes my throat hurt? So little and so big all at the same time. She seems all the bigger next to our roly poly six month old. She’s even begun using “the k word”, and probably for good reason. Kindergarten is indeed on the horizon for her.

So, as she begins to piece together how reading and writing works, and wield scissors, prepare for her fourth birthday, and make up songs and dance with wild abandon, I marvel at the small stuff and contemplate Fiona’s size ten shoe.

I prefer the old cereal

We switched brands of rice cereal recently, and Nora has made her preference known: she has learned the spitting-it-out trick. I guess it's not really a trick, but a strategy: she doesn't do it to get a reaction - she's not old enough to do something like that yet, I think. Instead, it IS the reaction. Oh, you give me that stuff again? PBPBPBPBPBBtht!