Jim Croce

Gavin wanted a box down from a shelf in the playroom today, and was emphatic on his choice. Not that one, that one, uh-huh.

It had the spy gear in it; cell phones, walkie talkies, science-fiction-style squirt guns. A little later, Darcy got hold of the guns, and as I was changing her diaper, grabbed for them and told me "I like guns."

Now, she also tells me occasionally, out of the blue, "I love you Daddy," so she's hardly flighty, choosing every word carefully. So, what to do? I mean, we have to encourage the young ones when they have interests, right?

I kid because I care. Darcy hasn't gotten her due yet in this space, but she is the main ingredient in one of my favorite sounds. Her giggle is so sweet, and it's guaranteed when I nuzzle her neck and say "yumyumyumyum."

She's got this crazy curly hair, like Cindy-Lou Who, and neither Carrie nor I have it. So curly you don't even think about combing or brushing it when it's dry. People say she looks just like Maggie, except that she's as fair as Maggie is dark, and I see that. Funny thing is, Darcy means "dark one," in some Irish language, and because of Maggie, I thought we'd be safe choosing that name. When we pin back the hair and let that little cherub face shine, she's adorable. And when she's upset, what a bottom lip!

The contrast from her days of infancy is remarkable. She hardly ever smiled and not only that, she would stare at you as if you'd just said that up was down. A lawyer we predicted she'd be; no humor, all business. Now?

What a goof, making faces, noises, smiles, laughs, a smile to a frown in a flash, and of course, that giggle. And when she cries a little too much and I show exasperation, she'll sob, "I'm sorry, Daddy," which worries me because I don't want her to feel like everything's her fault, especially when she's been the victim of a Gavin crime. When we implore him to apologize to her (he's 80% of the reason she cries)--"Say you're sorry"--half the time she'll be the one who says it. "No, not you, him."

I'm still amazed, because of her rosy cheeks, that she's a skinny minny, too; I sometimes have a mental image of her as a little chubster, but she's all ribs and spidery blue veins (thanks to the pale skin).

We love her boldness, but just like Connor had with a security blanket, named Bee Bee, Darcy has Bunny. It's white, and she has to have it to sleep with or when she's really upset. She gnaws on it occasionally, and when she was still in a crib, one of her favorite games was to push it through the bars toward me to have me take a bite. I would pretend to taste and pretend it was disgusting, and she would laugh and laugh and push it to me again.

Our house is always on Bunny Alert, when she's crabby-tired, and we panic when we can't find her. Yes, her; we asked Darcy, and she says Bunny is a her. That thing gets yucky, like a canine chew toy, and gets periodic washing-machine baths, which have to be timed correctly so she's ready for the next bedtime. I'm sure it's the next Typhoid Mary.

In summary, Darcy is pretty much game for anything, and I think will be the girl from Indiana Jones who drinks the yak-master under the table in her Tibetan tavern, dirty-old-man laughing all the while, strapped with a 44-gun in her pocketful of fun.