Alana has begun to talk, in her mind at least.   To the rest of us, it sounds like this:

Its not very loud, and she’s not much of a conversationalist.   Unless she happens to be lying next to me, in which case she is babbling in my ear worse than a drunk at a bar who’s cell phone battery just died.   The spitting sound gets kinda gross, it makes me feel moist, and I keep expecting she’ll reach a conclusion and soon be making a dramatic point, upon which all this expectoration will climax, and then end.

It does not happen.   Instead, she inches closer to me, and knocks her giant now-fuzzy head against mine.   Its kinda sweet, but mostly its hot.   And hard.   Why is it a tinyHead hurts me more than it hurts her?   She also likes to kick and flail in all directions, but seems to reserve most of the kicking and flailing for my ribs and nards.   I kinda understand this, in a weird way, for if you can’t kick and flail against something, how do you know that you are kicking and flailing successfully?

I shove her across the bed, to gain some space.   She rotates, how can she rotate when she can’t even crawl?   Now the Business End of the baby points at me.   She dozes, I doze, as tinyFarts blow into my mouth.