Please pray for the health of my baby. While she isn’t sick, I’m afraid my older daughter just might kill her.
Peony was born at the end of August. She wasn’t a few hours old when her big sister Petunia, 3, tried to give her a Goldfish cracker. It was significant in that Petunia has never offered to share a Goldfish — or anything — with anyone else previously. And it was significant in that a Goldfish cracker in the mouth of an hours-old infant is lethal.
Three months into it the weapons of death have increased a few hundredfold. Please pray for Peony.
Petunia professes to love Peony. And while I think she does, I think she loves her a little too hard.
Like when she grabs Peony’s head with both hands and forces it up to her lips for a kiss (instead of, say, bringing her lips to Peony’s head). Or when she jumps on the bed to cuddle with her and covers Peony’s 12-pound body with her 35-pound one. Or when she takes it upon herself to manually swing Peony in the electronic cradle swing in a manner befitting a pendulum on crack.
It’s one thing when Petunia screams in Peony’s ear that she feels it’s time that she wakes up (“WAKE UP! IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP! GET! UP! NOW!”). Or when she hovers over her during a diaper changing (I think to (a) make sure I’m doing a good job, and (b) to remind Peony that she’s always watching. Always.).
But it’s a whole other thing when she decides that Peony must be in need of a Dora doll over her nose and mouth. Or when she thinks it’ll be a nice surprise for Peony to try a banana coated in peanut butter.
I’m sure Peony will be able to fight back eventually. That is, if Petunia allows her to live to an age where she’s strong enough to do it.
Please: Pray for Peony.
Do you ever fear your older child might murder your younger one?
Image: Meredith Carroll