what we have here is a failure to communicate
One thing about hanging out with Oona: I'm talking more. Whereas at work I avoided conversation like the plague -- and shut my eyes in its presence, waiting and wishing for the speaker's face to melt, or break out into open sores, or snakes, and their limbs to fall off, and their bodies to burst into flame -- now I talk all the time. I tell Oona about the weather (boo clouds!), and encourage her to poop before naptime. I point out the cats to her, because her delight in them is about the only thing keeping them from an episode of American Mysteries (title episode: Fatty and Scaredy, Two Missing Idiots). I say OhmyGoddoyouhavetocrowdmeonthebedallthetimewhenI'mtryingtoread and then push and roll her back to her own side while she laughs maniacally. We ask questions about her favourite dolls, and who that smiling baby in the mirror is. Yesterday we even talked a little politics (poor ol' Gordon Brown) and hockey (poor ol' Vancouver Canucks, about as mentally tough as a can of Zoodles). I tease, I kid, I cajole. And when she's being scratchy, or whiny, or in tears, I tell her that it will all be better in just a moment. And then it is.