We are experiencing technical difficulties here in the form of a broken computer (warrantied, yay!); a camera that refuses to download pictures to the old laptop I'm currently using; and an old laptop with an apparent aversion to Caps Lock. Considering that things go in threes, I think we're getting off easy. While we may be temporarily without pictures, I have a little story to share that captures The Wog in all of her little Wogness.
Last night was not a good night for The Wog. She padded into our room around midnight, snivel-ly and coughing. I had a bit of this bug last week, so it was only a matter of time before it made its way to her and The Doodle. The Wog couldn't sleep because her nose was running, and she couldn't put that into words; instead, everything else was wrong: too cold, too many covers, the wrong pacis (there is a distinct hierarchy of pacifiers--known only and absolutely to her--amongst her collection, and yes, I know, she is too old for pacis and we are working on that but as a wise person recently told me, "No one goes to college sucking on a pacifier," so I'm going with that until a medical professional--or university admissions officer--tells me otherwise). After much tossing and turning and squirming and wriggling and kicking and punching and shucking of sheets (it's like sharing a bed with an angry octopus), she burst into her signature high-pitched wail. We asked her what was wrong, but the wail continued to escalate as we repeatedly explained that we couldn't help her until she told us what was bothering her. Finally, she warbled that she had to pee. Marc offered to take her down to the bathroom and they both got out of bed, but The Wog just stood at the top of the staircase sniffling, shuffling her feet, and rubbing her eyes, despite our best encouragement to move things along. As parental patience rounded the corner into sleep-deprived exasperation, Marc asked her one last time if he could help her. She yelped back at him with great frustration, "I'm just trying to help myself!!!"
And that--right there--is The Wog. She does not often wallow or stew; she moves forward and up however she can. The Wog wants more than anything to be happy, and everything she does is a means to that end.
Clearly The Wog needed some time to work it out-- or to help herself, as the case may be. Minutes later, she was cheerily tucked back into bed working on her LeapPad while I read a book. (Poor Marc got bumped to the guest room.) The octopus was no longer angry, and we turned off the light and went to bed.