There's so much to say, and it's been so long since I've said any of it, that I don't know where to begin.
Let's start with Emmy. She is twenty months old now. Her second year is flying past me, and if I don't write some of this down, I'm never going to remember it.
Little Emmy is ... lively. Chatty. Spirited. Determined. She loves shoes, hates clothes, loves Dora, is fascinated with the bat cave and all of the little superheroes that fit inside it (it's really no different from a little doll house), and insists on potty training herself. I've tried to convince her that her mother really is too pregnant to potty train anyone right now, but she cannot be dissuaded. She has decided that it's time.
She loves blocks and books and giving kisses, but mostly she loves doing whatever her brothers are doing - including peeing on the bushes, jumping into the swimming pool, and walking across the street without holding her mother's hand. She sleeps with two babies, one for each arm. And she makes the cutest little shooting sounds when she holds up a gun built from trio blocks.
She is FIERCELY independent, much more than either of her brothers ever were. But like every toddler, she spends just as much time clamoring for my lap as she does propelling herself out of my arms.
With her brothers in school, and no baby for a few weeks yet, Emmy and I spend our mornings together, unloading the dishwasher or running errands. She enjoys the attention, and the chance to putter, uninterrupted, in the play room. But she also cheerfully runs for the door and chirps "Asher Silas school! Asher Silas home!" when I announce it is time to pick up her brothers.
In fact, she does everything enthusiastically. Climb onto the potty, buckle her seatbelt, sing with Backpack, eat her snacks. Whether she is screaming in the grocery cart or singing with her dad, every thing she does is full of life.
And my life is much fuller because of her.