— I LOVE to be held. I cannot reiterate that enough. I can be fed, changed, and completely exhausted, but if I’m not in your arms, I throw a fit. Daddy says I’m high maintenance and if we don’t get this need to be constantly held under control, a whole host of issues can occur — teenage insecurity/rebellion, followed by lots of tats and piercings, followed by me marrying some guy named Vinny at a midnight ceremony in Vegas.
— I don’t much care for my crib. It’s hard and uncomfortable. I prefer to sleep (only after being held) in my vibrating chair.
— I don’t think I’ve worn anything other than pink since I was born.
— Mommy puts these gawdy huge bows on my head. They get in my eyes.
— I poop with every single feeding. And it stinks.
— Nursing is going better, although I still recognize that milk just comes faster from a bottle than from Mommy. Sorry, Ma.
— I love my big brother. He’s always watching out for me. He gives a play-by-play to Daddy in the car. “Daddy, uh-oh, Sienna lost her binky.” “Daddy, uh-oh, Sienna’s crying.” “Daddy, uh-oh, Sienna’s missing.” (That last one had Mommy in a tizzy).