Louisey woke up in the middle of the night crying for her cuppy. She's developed an overly intense relationship with her cuppy over the past few days. It seems like no matter what day it is, or what time it is or what we're doing, she's either holding on to it like it's her best friend, or she's whining about not having it.
She's become something new.
Do you know how they do that? You have a baby and they're something solid and they like peas and climbing up the stairs, but then one day you wake up and they're something totally different.
Louisey, right now, is a hilarious, big fat party baby. She has tons of jokes, like when she puts food or a plate or a toy on her head and screams "Look!" so that you have to look, and then we all laugh. We collapse against each other and squeal, "French fry head!" or "Bowl head!" and Louise is so proud of herself for being so funny.
She also whiles away hours of our lives saying, "Knock knock!" We answer, "Who's there?" She says, "Perry!" We say, "Perry who?" And she booms in her ridiculous little 18 month old voice, "HA HA HA!"
Some people just know what's funny, I guess.
She will get your attention and start pointing to things. She'll point to herself and you say, "Louisey." She'll point to Scouty and you say, "Sissie." She points to her head and her shirt and her shoes. You say, "Head. Shirt. Shoes."
Then, she gets this big, smart smile and she points to her butt.
We all collapse against each other saying, "Butt," and laughing and laughing and Louise feels like she must be some kind of genius. She watches people all day long and none of them laugh with as much convincing vigor as we do when she points to her butt and raises her little eyebrows saying, "Here it comes. This is the money part. They're gonna say butt."
Kurt and I never used to be the kinds of people who laughed about butts. We were delinquents and urchins. We waited in alleys behind abandoned buildings. We ducked behind shrubs to vomit. I ate a steady diet of ramen and donut sticks from the gas station at the end of the block. Somehow, laughing about butts was too lowbrow for us.
Louisey's latest bit of comic revelation is that she'll say to you, "Look!" in her bright little baby voice, and when you look at her, she has something jammed in her nose. The straw of her cup, a sweet potato fry, a plastic Mickey Mouse arm, a crispy potato stick in the car.
I tried telling Scouty not to laugh because I didn't want Louisey to feel encouraged in this particular endeavor, but lord help her, she's four and she can't help but laugh.
On our way to school this afternoon, there was a chorus of "Look!" and then bubbling waterfall laughter from Big Sissy coming out of the back seat. Over and over again.
"Mommom, look!" Louisey called to me.
I glanced in the rear view mirror to see that she had the spout of her sippy pressed against her nose so that she looked like a little pig.
"Okay, Louisey," I tried. "That's not funny. You're going to get something stuck up there."
"And then what would happen?" Scouty asked.
"Well..." I said. "We'd have to take her to the doctor to have it removed so that it didn't um, get into her brain and make her go crazy."
"She's already crazy!" Scouty said.
"Look!" Louisey screamed.
Scouty laughed harder than ever. "Ew, mom! Louisey just stuck her potato stick in her nose and then bit off the boogery part!"
I used to feel a little sanctimonious about my children. They were so sweet and beautiful and mild mannered. Just think about all the things I must have done right.