Maeve

Maeve, she's a wild rascal these days.  She even looks like a rascal most of the time: curls spiraling off her head, smudged face, pen scribbled on her palms and pant legs, chubby bare feet on the cold floors.

Though her vocabulary is still tiny, she has some things to say.  Unlike Silas and Eden, who would yank on power cords and rip book pages hidden silently in the house, Maeve yells.  It starts like this from some other room: 

Mama, Mama, like a song, and I ignore it because it's the song she sings all day every day.
Maaaamaa!  MaaaaaaMaaaaaaa! Still I let it go to squeeze another minute out of whatever I'm doing.
MaaaaaMAAAAA!  MAMA!!!  MAMAAA!!  Urgency in that voice, so I follow it down the hall.  The bathroom door is closed, and when I open it, there she is with both hands splashing wildly in the toilet, yelling for me at the top of her lungs.

Or

Mama, Mama, Mama  Absentmindedly, Hi Maeve
Maaamaa!  Again, Hi Maeve wherever you are
Maaamaaa! MaaamaAAA! I take pause.
MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!  I run.  She's sitting at the top of the stairs in Silas's room, scribbling down his wall and onto the wood with a Sharpie, waiting for me to stop her.

Even sitting next to me on the rug, I'll hear quietly at my elbow in almost a whisper,
mama... mama... and look down to see her holding my phone with both hands like a confession.

I know I shouldn't do this but this is SO FUN I CANNOT HELP IT!!  MAMA! I'M DOING IT!  I'M STILL DOING IT!  MAAAMAAAA!!!!