Poached Please

Dear Kylee,

Today you are almost six months old. You are fairly clumsy and make no regrets, just like your mother. If people except us to maintain gait, well.... they are talking to the wrong pair. I have a bit of lead on you, but only by years.... you will likely catch up to me and we'll trip, fall, bruise ourselves and both look shocked together.

I told you the theme of 2008 Halloween and you promply auditioned.

Malice in Wonderland indeed!

But Malice doesn't have a receeding hair line, sorry baby girl you are destined to be a Tweedle.

You are giant and have gotten picky about your kibble. I suspect it is because you've been spoiled on human food. Tonight you tasted the first Sunday breakfast of your brown little life. I used to make Sunday break'in-fest for Leeds and the Pickle, of course for Mr. Morgan too, but I throw in 4 extra eggs so that all Morgans may enjoy the day with proper bellies. We normally do this around the time other people have break'in-fest, but Dad's tummy wasn't exactly interested until evening. You met my eggs with serious skeptisism. It was an egg bomb! - your face said. A trap! When you finally gave in and decided that potential death was worth the risk, all I saw was a blink of tongue and egg was gone. So were you.

It was prompt that you came back blaming your brother for eating your share. You remain a terrible liar.

I want to think it's because I'm a terrific cook, but I've found you with poop in your mouth, so I'm hardly flattered. You are being good for the most part, sometimes I think you are so damn smart and other times I think you are winging it and falling into credit by accident.

You wake me up every morning with a careful lick to my foot, as if to say "I'm up Mama let's play!" And boy do you sit at the end of the bed hoping that sweet lick will stir me. Then you pout when I scream "WHAT!" You'll have to forgive mom for not being a good waker-upper.

Trust me, both of your parents wake up looking for you and come to pet you like a moth to light while your brother yawns on, he's met you.

You definitely have a nice life, and seem to appreciate it. When approached you tumble to the ground belly up, wishing for affection. For that I give you a solid nod. You haven't a fear in the world and I like to take credit for your parents giving you so much security that you worry about nothing. It's a bit scary how fierce I've become over you, I'd be one of those mom's who throw cars like superman when their offspring is in harms way. Quite unexpected, but I suppose feeding and grooming a little beast will do that to a person. You fell into a difficult position by helping your dad move on, and by me not entirely wanting to see your face because it wasn't hers. You've done such with great dignity and eager wanting to be embraced. You walk into a room screaming "I'm Kylee!" and you strut that brown waggy tail. I love that about you.

Get ready little one, my holiday is upon us, brace for the costume assault.

Love,

Mama.