There's no attachment disorder with this little girl. She's one hundred percent, bonafide connected to her Momma at the hip. This petite independent ball of whopping wiggle Willow just cannot get enough of Victoria. We've never been concerned about her affections toward any of us, but of late any remote concerns that we might have had are completely erased. When she used to get up in the morning she'd roam and play independently around the house, and now she's immediately calling out and looking for her Momma from the moment her eyelids open up (and her internal alarm clock religiously rings at 5:30 a.m.). When she used to let Victoria make breakfast without anyone hanging on her legs, Willow's now the monkey that just won't let go. When Victoria used to leave the house for a few hours to recharge her batteries Willow would hardly fuss about her absence, but now she's calling for her Mom almost instantaneously when Victoria shuts the door on her way out. When she was so relaxed allowing Poppy to sit in her Momma's lap while Willow mindlessly played round and about, she's now furiously jealous and just must squeeze her way into Victoria's arms no matter how full they are with Poppy. And instead of those horrifying moments of silence around the house wondering what kind of mischief Willow was getting into, she's now the one screaming out "Mooooommmm, Moooooommmm" looking for Momma when the silence is too deafening even for her.
These are all good things, and we're grateful that such strong bonds of love are so lavishly poured out. We wouldn't want it any other way. But along with those exuberant expressions of emotion come the exacerbation of what we knew and know of her Wu Wei Whine; that high pitched, monotone drone of a cry that at first sounds cute, but after awhile can drive you crazy. So when her engines now start to rev up and we can hear that whirling whoop escalate, we calmly let her know that she can go into the "whine room" (our study) where she can listen to herself until she's ready to come out and socialize without the whine. It usually only takes about ninety seconds or so, and before you know it she's shuffling down the hall on the balls of her feet (having opened the door herself), special pink blanket in tow, shoulders hunched forward, the other arm slumped down and her head cocked slightly toward the floor with only a tear or two starting to dry on her face. We ask her to tell us she's sorry (which she does in her cleft-palatese), and then we go on with our day until the next episode, usually only moments later. We're determined to love her through this phase and rid ourselves of this Wu Wei Whine, because it is Whoa, Way Wrong!
Hard to get frustrated in the midst of such adorableness,
Tom (& Victoria)
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