At the speed of a toddler

Porridge reminds me of weekday mornings with Granny and Gido. As the brown sugar dissolved crystal by crystal into the moat of milk and the mountain of Irish oatmeal emerged, I missed them and their small, sunny table crammed in the kitchen nook. That's where Gido and I would play Cribbage at night and try to win the old Cracker Jack skunk. I wish you could have met them Miah, but I'll do my best to keep them alive when you're old enough to listen to stories of your heritage, and what a legacy it is.

Last night, Miah moved into a big girl bed. We didn't have as many problems in this transition as I had feared, but we'll see how it goes. Late at night, however, I awoke to a few whimpers, and before I was fully awake I then heard a door click shut. I knew Miah was loose. I waited to hear what she would do. The dark confused her, so when she couldn't find our door, she wailed. That didn't last more than a few seconds until I picked her up and tucked her back into bed.

We've spent this morning in true toddler fashion: Miah removed all of her books from the shelf in the living room and piled them up for me; we studied shapes and colors with felt cutouts; I called Grandma for her, and she stole the phone, holding it smugly to her ear as Grandma and I talked over speaker phone; she unpacked a box of dolls and blankets; we ran, tumbled, stretched, and made a game of identifying body parts.