I'm thinking through some pretty dense issues right now, and I'll post about them soon (the unwanted attention we receive from strange men; one more reason to never shop at walmart, as if you needed another; knowing that adult tra's are justifiably angry with us; knowing that when my kids are adults I'll have a lot more to answer for than most parents; Miss I's memories, and how we are learning about them without words; trying to balance thinking with being).
But in the meantime, one example of why I can't do any of that while Miss I is awake:
She's babbling on my lap, and I'm distracted for a moment. Then she's quiet, and I hear her cheeks suck in. I turn her around on my lap, look in her open mouth. A flash of silver in the back of her throat, quickly gone. With one hand, I thrust her forward, belly against my other fist, and a quarter drops to the floor. I cry, and ds hugs me: "She's okay, she's okay." She is okay -- she laughs. But I think she's trying to kill me.
Miss I, how I do love you, and how I fear for both of us.