Get Me to a Nunnery

Or anywhere that enforces a vow of silence.

I only want to go for a week or two.

Maybe three.

Hannah has reached that age where, if she is awake, she is talking. She talks to Charlotte while getting dressed--even if Charlotte is still sleeping (or pretending to). If there is no response, she'll talk to her stuffed animals. Some mornings, she'll help me start my day with a cheery "Good morning!" followed by a recitation of last night's dreams, activities she's planned for the day, which animals are coming to the tea party, whether Charlotte is invited, followed closely by asking if it's alright if she colors, if she can watch Wubzy, if there is school today, whether it is sharing day yet, may she please have orange juice in her Tinkerbell cup . . .

And then she asks if I'm going to get up and make her breakfast.

If Thomas is home, he gets it first and I try to sneak in to the kitchen while Hannah has a mouth full of cereal. If I'm lucky--and fast enough--I can get in a gulp or two of coffee before she starts again. This makes it a little easier to follow her trains of thought.

I wonder if all of the kids in her class are at the same stage. If so, I know why her teacher had to take a week off . . .