I think my toddler is a better mommy than me. At least yesterday.

Little L had a little cold, but was miserable in that way that makes a parent miserable,too. She didn't want to be awake, she didn't want to sleep, she didn't want to play, she didn't want to sit still. After a long night of Randy and I passing each other in the hallway ...

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I'm going to get the big one."

"Yeah. I just came from the little one's room."

... over and over again, because every time LL woke up with a runny nose or a need for a cuddle, MJ woke up too ... the parents were spent. This one in particular. Once roused for good yesterday morning, I fought not only a 9-month-old's first illness and a 3-year-old's needs for whatever a 3-year-old feels she needs from second to second, but also a raging headache, the limitations of two hours of sleep and the absence of a daddy who had to put in extra hours working on a project from home.

[sigh]

This is what I get for bringing up last year's beach debacle on Friday. Nice one, loser Beth.

I think I momentarily lost that amnesia you're supposed to get about your own aches and pains when one of your children has an ache or pain, too. I was grumpy and frustrated, and when Randy took a break from work to come down and help me get them ready to take to the doctor's office, I responded to his question about something small with a retort that proposed that everyone, and particularly grown-ups I live with, stop asking me for things. Not my finest moment. Sometimes you just know that, for these waking hours, you're not going to be very good, and you make silent promises to yourself that if you get through the day, you'll be better tomorrow. More patient, more selfless, more, more, more ...

More grown-up. More like your toddler:

After lunch, I put a whining LL on the floor to play. Which took her whining to new decibels. As I stood and assessed whether her pleading look -- "C'mon, I'm in bad shape. Aren't you going to do anything to help? Pick me up! Waaaaah!" -- meant that I couldn't take a moment to visit the restroom after all, the 3-foot-half-inch cavalry arrived. MJ, who has taken to speaking less like a baby and more like a young woman asked to tea by the queen, calmly walked over to her sister, knelt down, encircled her ribcage with two tender arms and showed that at least one of us hadn't forgotten how to give even when the giving isn't pleasant.

"It's OK, Baby," she whispered. "You're OK. Look, here's a nice toy for you to play with. See? You're OK." And she was.