The Abby Whisperer

When we're trying to leave the house and I'm scurrying around in search and rescue of a missing Croc or a wayward sock Abby cries. In my rhetorical mom way I sing to her, "What's wrong, Mommy Girl?" To this song G always replies with whatever he feels is wrong with her:

"She is tired, Mommy," he will say.
"She needs to nurse," he will answer.
"She is mad that I took her toy from her," he will confess. And he is always right.

Sometimes when I see how Abby looks at Grayson, I know the moon and stars set above his head like a big brother halo glowing eternal. There is no funnier thing on the planet than her Grayson, existing for her own sheer enjoyment and personal entertainment. She shrugs off a whack to the head with a tennis racket (it hurts me still to think of it) but cries like the dickens when he walks away from her and out of her sight. She will stop nursing cold turkey if she hears his laughter off in the distance. The urge to be with him is stronger than her own hunger which, as many can attest, is quite constant and quite large. This girl has been known to eat an entire (cut up bite-size of course) cheeseburger and potato in one sitting. Yet, she'll forgo it all to be down on the floor playing with her big brother.

I thought this was unrequited admiration until recently. Until I really paid attention to my son who evidently pays full attention to his little sister.

"What's wrong Baby Girl?" I absent-mindedly croon to nobody in particular in this morning's hurry to leave the house. Abby is cranking up the volume in her high chair while I gather kid minutiae necessary for fewer meltdowns or at the very least, shorter ones. I choose plastic binoculars, a compass and a whistle. These should distract grabby hands from things I'd rather not purchase as we swoosh through the aisles of Michael's, CVS, or wherever I can find Styrofoam.

"She wants her pink sippy cup with apple juice," Grayson states like they share brain activity.

"Here ya go, Honey." I toss more sweet potato Puffs on to her tray. They are quickly sent to the floor with one swipe of her little angry hand. "Okay, Momma's almost done, here's some more pear." Again, banished to the blue tile below.

I glance at Grayson who is now dangling Her sippy cup in the air like a first class I-Told-You-So. We exchange raised eyebrows and I hand over the pink sippy cup with apple juice in it to its rightful owner. She smiles and gives Grayson a one-sided high five.

He was right again, the little mystic. Dr. Harvey Karp ain't got nothing on this guy.