NOTE: This post won't make sense without the pictures. Which are posted here.
My understanding is that most twins start noticing each other at about four to five months of age. Now, I’m certainly not going to start with the “my girls are already playing patty cake together!” posts. Far from it. In fact, I’m fairly certain they’re not going to roll over until they’re two, given the amount of interest they’ve shown in it thus far. So this isn’t a milestone post, it’s a “what are we in for?” post.
Because Bridey found her sister this weekend. Boy howdy, did she!
J had both girls on their playmat, and Marley was happily kicking things. And Bridey? Bridey was happily licking things. Namely her sister. On the side of her head.
We knew Bridey had a penchant for trying to eat her sister. This picture? Looks innocent, right? Except Bridey’s not headed in for a sweet nuzzle. She’s trying to eat Marley’s shoulder.
In fact, we have any number of photos of Bridey trying to eat things.
All cute in her Santa hat? Yes, until she leans over and tries to take a bite out of the ball dangling at the end.
Chilling with mom on the ottoman? Yup! But check out this face…she’s going after my hand while trying to look all innocent.
So, Sunday they’re on the floor with daddy, and J starts cracking up. I head over there to find my youngest daughter LICKING the side of her sister’s head! When I pulled out the camera she got all doe-eyed and innocent, but as soon as I put it away, she started in again. Poor Marley looked like a rather confused ice cream cone.
Marlowe actually had a matted spot on the side of her head the rest of the day. I probably should have brushed it out, but where’s the fun in that?
I thought this was a cute little picture of my newborns in the hospital. Turns out Bridey was already plotting against her sister.
We watched the Charlie Brown Christmas Special the other night. Well, Marlowe hung out in my arms while Bridey snoozed away in the nursery with Nana. It wasn't exactly a Hallmark moment in the making, but it did seem like a rite of passage. Good ol' Chuck is still my favorite when it comes to badly animated and/or stop-action Christmas specials from my childhood. I'm not sure if it's the fantastic music by Vince Guaraldi or that poor little Christmas tree that Charlie takes home year after year, but it's the special I always look forward to most.
We're in that weird transition time where I think it's time to quit counting the girls' age in weeks and start counting them in months. But we're still a week away from three months, so I'm going to celebrate the fact that at 7:14 and 7:15 tonight, respectively, my girls will have been outside babies for twelve entire weeks. 84 days. 2, 016 hours since my heart went from beating inside my chest to sleeping in cribs at night. (Well, the first few weeks they were actually in a Pack 'n Play at the foot of our bed. They were unceremoniously moved to the nursery due to Brigid's varied – and loud – nocturnal squawks. It's a good thing Marlowe's our sound sleeper.)
This morning I was ready to leave for work, and had already had a few hours of cuddling with a sleeping Brigid. I knew Marlowe was awake in her crib, because I had peeked in at her. About eleven times. Willing her to make enough noise to justify getting her out of the crib for a quick snuggle before I had to leave. Somehow it seemed wrong to pluck a baby contentedly chewing on her hands out of her crib just because I wanted to. But I did it anyway. And when I went in to get her, she turned her head and greeted me with a grin so huge it couldn't possibly fit on a twelve-week-old baby.
I told her if she could figure out how to say "pony" by Christmas, she could have one. That smile is going to be the end of me, I just know it.
*Note: This is a repost from the new blog. If you update your blogroll to the new address at Wordpress, you can not only read this entry, you get bonus pictures!*
Let me start this post off by saying these girls don’t have a chance in this house. Other parents have cute nicknames for their kids like “Noodle” and “Peanut”. Our girls? They get gangster names. And gangsta names.
Marlowe was the first to contract a case of the ‘cups while in the hospital. It took us a moment to realize there was in fact NOT a mouse farting in the room, but that the sounds were actually hiccups emanating from one of our children. At first they were cute. Then they went on. And on. For years. I know hiccups are common in newborns, but Marls was taking it to a new level. And since every self-respecting two-week-old needs a gangster name, we kissed her on both cheeks and dubbed her Marley Cups. I’m not going to worry too much unless Brigid wakes up with a My Little Pony head in her crib.
Then there’s her sister, B Giddy. With the sounds that come out of that child (think baby pterodactyl), I have no doubt she has a future as either a rap star or a professional glass shatterer. She can thank her Great Aunt Sinead for the “Giddy” part, and her father for putting it together P Diddy style.
By the time they’re in kindergarten they’re going to be begging us to call them Snookums in front of their friends.
I'm a thirty-something woman married to a thirty-something husband with a house, a dog and a yard. No picket fence. I like walks on the beach, big glasses of wine and sharp-as-tacks sarcasm. Welcome to my blog.