I am (finally) finding myself enchanted with Stella again. Yes, she is still emotionally volatile, and impatient, and has to be bribed with stickers to keep her cool when getting into tenuous situations at school, but she is also funny, and sweet and we have the most amazing conversations. And, as the ultimate test of trust and confidence, I can leave her alone in a room with Porter and not worry that she will try to staple him to the floor while I am gone.

And, speaking of Cutie Von Cutenstein Porter, although he is not yet crawling, he can scoot and/or roll across the room with amazing adeptness, which is probably another reason I am not as concerned about leaving him alone with his sister – he can practically out-maneuver her. I shudder to think of what I am in for once both of my children move under their own power. I am hoping all of that sibling team building I have been working on doesn’t backfire and have the two of them huddling up against me. I know my children well enough to know that I won’t stand a chance.

As each day goes by, I am finding myself enjoying things a little more. I also find myself growing increasingly nostalgic. Sappily and pathetically nostalgic. Porter is my last baby and, thusly, I have realized that, not only is this the last time I will be experiencing all of this, but so much has gone by already. I was blind-sided with it over the weekend when I was at Rabia & Josh’s wedding reception, and ended up chatting with a woman who had a 6-week old baby boy. And when I say “chatted with” I mean cornered in the living room after my second glass of wine. Poor girl. I’m sure all she wanted to do was breast-feed in peace. I couldn’t help myself. After watching her carry him around in a front-pack all afternoon, snuggled up right against her chest, I couldn’t help but realize that those days have already passed. Porter has graduated to the backpack, and everytime I attempt to carry him in the sling, he spends his entire time craning his neck around to see what his sister is doing. I guess I am finally able to appreciate all that advice about enjoying it while I can because it goes so quickly. Advice that, when heard after the 6th consecutive day of 4 hours sleep, can sound a little hollow.

And so I am appreciating it. Every moment I can. Like when Stella came screetching into the kitchen, à la Tom Cruise in Risky Business, saying, “I know this song! I know this song!” and began boogeying down and singing along.

Apparently, my music collection crosses over with a 3-year-old, and apparently Jack Johnson is the Dylan of the pre-school set.