Meet Viola. She's my favorite high energy girly-girl toddler. I think the necklaces complement the diaper nicely.
(Here's an excerpt from my creative nonfiction essay Baby Vi and I. Vi was eight months when this story took place.)
“Good morning, baby,” I said with a smile. It was too early to be awake, but I was looking forward to spending the day with this little girl.
Her large round eyes stared up at me. I can only imagine what she was thinking.
“You’re not mommy. You’re A. Where’s mommy?” her eyes asked.
She picked up her favorite stuffed moose, still staring at me. Her look of doubt was making me doubt. Could I take care of this eight month old baby for the next twelve hours? I’d spent time with her before, but never an entire day without one of her parents being there, too. Trina, Viola’s older sister, and I had spent weekends together when her parents were out of town. She was five though, not a baby.
“Are you ready for breakfast, Viola?” I asked gently.
Still clinging to her little moose, she tilted her head in confusion, but she wasn’t crying. I snuggled the fuzzy black blanket around her as I picked her up. She curled up in my arms and pressed herself close to me. As we walked down the hallway, I could feel her heart beating and could feel the warmth of her steady breath.
“We’re going to get breakfast,” I told the little girl. “Would you like your yummy rice cereal and some milk?” I asked, knowing there would be no response. She was only eight months old and barely able to crawl, let alone talk.
Unable to prepare her food while holding her, the highchair seemed like the perfect place to put her. She could sit for a few minutes while I mixed her cereal and finished defrosting the frozen pre-pumped milk to pour into her sippy cup.
I wiggled her feet into the right holes of her seat and clasped the buckle so she could not squirm free and fall. I pulled the chair over to where I was so she could be close to me.
No sooner had I turned around and taken three steps to the counter did her world appear to fall apart. The first sound she made that morning was an ear-piercing scream. Separation anxiety from that point on was the theme of our day.
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