Fiona en fuego

It's been a hell of a few days around here. I've been meaning to write something, anything, about our sweet baby Owen but he was awake last night from 1 to 3 a.m. so he's currently on my poop list. (More on him when he gets back in my good graces. Don't worry, all it usually takes is a smile.)

Fiona, however, is on my "OMG, what the hell?" list. Let me explain.

It seems that every few weeks she takes the game to a whole new level here, sometimes literally. I've found her in places that should be physically impossible for her to reach. She has pulled a few shrieking tantrums that probably violate the city noise ordinance. She did a running dive onto the swing that didn't end well. There's a dent in the ground and a bruise on her face. Yes, that's right, I said a dent. In the ground. She was really running that fast. She took wee little bites out of about a half dozen apples that I forgot to put away after grocery shopping yesterday. Sunday evening we had a little chocolate cake incident. A friend who was with us said she could see the fear in my eyes as Fiona angrily and violently sought out more cake, waving her fork wildly (the little pisser actually got my last bite of cake) and shrieking and flailing about on my lap.

Then last night, at 2 a.m., she came downstairs for a visit, presumably to keep Owen and I company. She was at full tilt even at that obscene hour. It was as if she'd never been asleep. She entertained Owie for a few minutes, tried to put his pacifier in and wandered off. Then it got quiet. Too quiet. I decided to investigate. I found her standing in the kitchen sink.

By noon, she had pulled down the top shelf of her closet, probably by yanking on the clothes hanging up there. I was too tired by this time to do anything but sit on the floor in the midst of the mess that included a bunch of wrapping paper and gift bows, boxes and bags. They completely destroyed all of it; the remains are in a trash bag on the back porch right now. But they had a blast playing with it. Danny pretended the string was spaghetti, my red flashlight was a jar of  spaghetti sauce and the laundry basket was the pot. I even taught him to play tug-of-war with the ribbons (it occurs to me that this is the anti-sharing game. how awesome.). Even Owen happily sprawled on the floor, watched the kids and even did a little pre-Army style crawling (Dear God help me!!). All was bliss until I turned to find his sister about to sit on his back as if her were a horse. Then she tried to bite him. Then she tried to hit him.

Then it was naptime, or as I like to call it, whack-a-nap. By the time one goes down, another one gets up. I get that one back down, try to get some rest and the other one pops back up. I finally gave up and came downstairs by which time all three of them were fast asleep. I swear they do it on purpose to make sure I never, ever get enough rest.

So, when life gives you nibbled apples, you just have to make Apple Brown Betty, right? I did that last night around 9:30. It's loaded with sugar and butter and so delicious. I'll have to eat in the closet, though, because if we give Fiona any, she'll probably destroy the house.

And for your viewing pleasure, here's a little photo album of Fiona's exploits this summer.

No no no no no