Abby never stops talking. My boys? They’ll converse about Bionicles or Lego or worms or the merits of spray soap over tub-dye tablets- but other than that, they just go about their days busy being boys. They talk to mama when somethings up, but otherwise, they just keep busy.
Abby. Oh Abby. Abby narrates everything in her life. She sings song about whatever she’s doing, how she’s doing it, and how it makes her feel. It’s like living in Enchanted. If she’s on the potty, the whole house is treated to a song about about going potty, and what is dropping from her bottom. She wants to talk about everything. Some people learn by doing, some by pondering, some are visual learners- Abby learns by talking out her thought process. Every. Single. Thought.
Oh, I know someday, when she’s thirteen (the most horrid bane of all hell-ages on the earth) I will plead with her to talk to me, and she will throw sassy and selfish words at me like scalding pots of mascara, but for now, I could use a little peace and quiet.
Today, she went potty, washed up and followed me to the kitchen, chatting the whole time about the color of her skirt and how her nail polish needed to be repainted and how dad was mowing the lawn but brother’s truck was in the way and she needed to save it OH NO and her shirt is pretty blue but this skirt doesn’t twirl mama and I need a bagel but not with peanut butter mama because I don’t like peanut butter mama why did you drop that mama Bean likes peanut butter and I want my bagel toasted mama can I have a sink bath mama why are you filling up the sink OH LOOK BUBBLES! can I blow them mama I like bubbles I want to help wash mama I will put the spoons away this is the dishwasher mama this thingy spins mama it makes me laugh what is this mama can I put it away I’m hungry mama when is Bean going to be home Jeffrey is downstairs and here is a pretty new pink skirt mama that I got from the dryer and I can twirl mama. MAMA! LOOK!…
(don’t you want to just gasp for breath?)
Her dress is changed. Wiping my hands from the sudsy sink I ask “Abby, where is your other dress?”
“It’s wet.” She is playing with the measuring spoons now, waxing on about stacking the cups and how clean the grater is.
“Why is it wet?
“I spilled in the bathroom. I washed my hands mama…” she keeps chatting as I head to the bathroom.
There is a flood- there are puddles of water on the floor and the counter is soaked, the toilet paper is a drenched mass hanging from it’s sopping little cardboard heart, and there is soap everywhere.
“Abby! You are a dastardly, child!” I say in exasperation.
She comes up behind me as I survey the damage. “No, mama. I’m not. I’m Abby.” and on it goes…