In Defence of Crying

Laura and Sienna are in Montrose, leaving me to my devices here in the Bozone. I miss them. A lot. Regarding Sienna, I miss cuddling with her, I miss listening to her babble, I miss dancing with her. What I miss most, however, is her crying. This is, well, unexpected. I admit that before July 17, one of my biggest worries was whether or not we could get her to stop crying. Who wants a baby that screams all the time? It's bad for your blood pressure. Likewise, there's the unconscious assumption that if a baby cries, the parents must be doing something wrong. I don't want to do anything wrong, nor do I want to be surrounded by crying. So, there's a lot of pressure to do whatever it takes to appease Sienna's cries.
Now, three months in, I'm calling bullshit on that one. Granted, a kid can't learn if she's crying constantly, but her crying isn't the same as my crying. In order to get me to cry constantly, it takes a lot (AT LEAST five minutes into "UP"), but not her. Sienna's cry is her voice, and all she's saying is "Let's do something about _____." At the biological level, if she's crying, it means she's okay. It's when she stops crying that we need to worry (babies that don't cry in the ER scare me). I hope that she keeps crying her whole life. Recognizing dissatisfaction is perhaps the most basic function of life. Without it, you die. Her cries mean she's alive, and I don't mean biologically, but spiritually. If you don't cry, it means that you think everything is hunky-dorey (sp?). And guess what, things aren't hunky-dory (sp?). At the macro-level, the world has problems, and we need more people calling foul on them. We need more people crying. Sienna's a happy little girl, content. But she knows when something is wrong. I hope that she doesn't lose this. Keep crying sweetie, we're listening. Let's work together to make things hunky-doeree (sp?).

More pictures when the girls get back. I guess sienna has started to do the assisted walk. What? That's not supposed to happen for months. Must be a phase. She's not rolling over like she used to, after all.


A poem, to the babe:


There once was a girl we named Squeek,
Who poops in her pants thrice a week.
We clean her up well,
To get out the smell,
Or else her small butt starts to reek!