Family Life
We sit calmly in our living room. The whole family except Ellie is at complete peace. She is just a bit fidgety, maybe it is a burp-bubble. She cries lightly telling me that I need to hold her another way or move more.

Ellie's eyes widen and curiosity showers her pudgy face as Emma begins to sing her newest rendition of "What I Think Should be Sung Loudest". It is a little ditty she has been perfecting for sometime now. It consists of stories, most often misunderstood to the untrained ear. It usually concerns her little sister and her love for her family and friends. It would be a sweet award-winning video if it wasn't always presented at the most inopportune time.

Her need to harmonize seems to be inspired most when Ellie begins to fuss. Of course, this happens a lot more than when Emma was a baby, however Emma refuses to start her program unless Ellie kick's off the first few notes. Then, like a locomotive pulling from the depot, Emma slowly grinds her tune into gear, persistently chugging to a louder and stronger pace until she is running at full tempo. The scenery whizzes by her as she tears through the house while the words dance through her lips.

Ellie's brow frowns. The noise that is intended to be sweet and melodic begins to reflect the sound of scraping metal on asphalt. It is just loud enough to overpower the music on the radio, or the football game on the television. It is just powerful enough to disrupt any verbal communication that might of been occurring. It is becoming "noticed."

Ellie's mouth gapes and she blinks annoyance into her cherub cheeks as this Zappa-esque jam promptly increases in volume. She squeaks her little "warning" squeak. Abbie and I have quickly recognized this as fast approaching trouble. We hear the squeaks. They are ignored by the roaring big sister, who by this time is belting the words at full force, fists clenched, eyes closed, chin raised.

Ellie's eyes tighten shut, her jaw drops open, and I hasten the patting on her back attempting to distract the irritant but with no success.

WWWWAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

Mariah Carey would be proud of the octaves my one-month-old can deliver.

Then the phone rings, there is a knock on the door and the dog begins to bark at shadows in the kitchen. Yes, hell has officially broken loose, and it is only 8:43 A.M.

At least we got the first one of the day out of the way.