AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Cheeseburger DATE: 10/26/2003 04:05:00 PM ----- BODY:

Olivia likes to help take care of the baby. She's very good at pouring water on Caramia at bath time, and not too bad at applying lotion and powder afterwards. She gives the baby very nice hugs, and tucks a blanket around her like a pro. She's less adept at playing, especially since Olivia's idea of playing with her baby sister is to give her a good poke, or a nice, hard squeeze. Sharing is a real challenge too. No matter what little toy we prop in front of Caramia, Olivia seizes it and declares, "That's for old baby. That's not for tiny baby at all." She's absconded with a stuffed Very Hungry Caterpillar, a pink bunny rabbit that plays music when shaken, and a hard plastic rattle in the shape of a duck. Olivia so loves this last item that she has named it in honor of one of her very favorite things in the world: a cheeseburger. Only the mysteries of genetics can account for my carnivorous two and half year-old daughter. It's not environment: I prepare fresh salads and vegetables every night and routinely snack on apples and pears. She, however, will have nothing to do with any kind of vegetation, with the rare exception of a few peas (known around here as "tiny green baby balls"), or a token nibble on an ear of corn. Under no circumstances will she eat fruit. She might drink a little orange juice, but only on those occasions when I lie and pretend that we're out of milk. Meat is what she wants. Not too long ago she announced, "Old baby likes steak." She meant it. No matter what else we put on her plate -- green beans, carrots, applesauce -- she goes right for the meat, polishes it off, then asks for seconds. For a long time she wouldn't touch a potato, and it's only recently that we've persuaded her to try pasta. I don't know how much vitamin C is in spaghetti sauce, but I'm praying it's enough to keep her from developing scurvy. Desperate to balance her diet, I bought some gummy bear-shaped vitamins at a natural foods store. Her love of candy made her an easy mark for this bit of parental deception. Unfortunately, a gummy bear made up of cabbage, carrot, and beet juice isn't likely to fool the average toddler. Olivia chewed for approximately two seconds, then dramatically spat the ersatz bear onto the floor. Gagging for effect, she then grabbed my sleeve and used it to wipe off her tongue. Maybe Caramia will be my little fruit eater. She's a very different baby than her sister was. Although every bit as wakeful and smiley, she is a better sleeper. Olivia was almost a year old before she slept through the night; Caramia gives us a full night's sleep at least once or twice a week now. Where Olivia nursed for food and comfort, Caramia nurses only to eat. She has a meal and a snuggle, then a long, private munch on her thumb. Caramia is also the noisiest baby we've ever encountered. She has an entire vocabulary of grunts, squeaks and squeals, yips and yelps, groans and moans. Sometimes, if she's very tired, she'll actually yodel herself to sleep. Loudly. I can't decide if she's a born talker or has already figured out that she'd better do everything in her power to make herself heard in this family. Probably the latter. With a sister chattering non-stop and a mommy doing a radio talk show right next to her bouncy seat, Caramia can't afford to be quiet. Even now, sleeping beside me, she's squeaking and sighing and making her presence known. Two babies are an awful lot of work. But now I can't imagine my life any other way. What did I do before Olivia and Caramia were born? Looking back, it seems that I let time run through my hands like water. Why didn't I take up pottery? Or kayaking? I could have learned to speak Spanish, or play poker. I had endless stretches of time in which to become a fascinating and worldly person. That'll all have to wait now. Today, after I finish building a tower of blocks -- one that Olivia will barrel into with glee, shouting, "More again Mommy!" -- I'll do a little driveway chalk art, change a few diapers, and read "Fox in Socks" till my eyes cross. Then, Mark and I will practice our nighttime man-on-man defense strategy. I'll nurse Caramia while he wrestles Olivia into pajamas, reads her some stories, and tucks her into her new big girl bed. He'll have to gather the necessary bedtime objects: cold blankie, Baby Minnie, and Elmo. I'll have to track down Cheeseburger. Once the babies are quiet, we'll curl up on the couch to compare notes: "Can you believe she said that?" "Did you see how quickly she did her Pooh puzzle?" "Caramia is getting cuter by the day -- those are definitely your eyebrows!" And so on. Nothing intellectual or sophisticated. We won't sip brandy in front of a roaring fire, or lounge about in silk pajamas. The things we'll talk about wouldn't matter to anyone else. They're just the silly, sometimes touching, little antics of our favorite people, our children. Parent talk. In other words, the sound of blessings being counted.

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