how is robin like a vw?

Robin and the wiper-fluid-is-low alarm in our car both work on the same principle: if it's worth worrying about, it's worth worrying about a lot. In our car, the wiper-fluid-is-low alarm sounds roughly like an air raid siren. And it's set to induce these small heart attacks when the wiper fluid gets to the half-full point, which means there's still a good litre-and-a-half left, which depending on the season means we will not be running out of wiper fluid in the next two months. And the best part is, the sensor is very sensitive, so when the remaining wiper fluid sloshes around the litre-and-a-half-left mark, going just over and then just under and then just over with every little bump (and I should point out that we live in Winnipeg, The Pothole Capital of the World) then we are treated to multiple air raid alerts on even the shortest of trips. If this is the "You Will Run Out Of Wiper Fluid In A Few Weeks" alarm, I shudder to think what the "You Have Hit A Small Child" alarm sounds like.

Anyway.

Robin seems to have only two settings for crying: "Off" and "THE WORLD IS ENDING." This is a particular problem when we have the temerity to, wait for it, LIE HER DOWN ON HER BACK. What outrageous jerks! Robin is an excellent sitter these days, which means she does not care to lie down for any reason, including diaper changes. It's an interesting exercise trying to change a six-month-old who is struggling to sit up the entire time; she prefers the "lock my legs together" technique which makes pulling the diaper up between her legs, umm, a bit challenging. On the other hand, she is considering marketing her new exercise program -- Abs of Steel: Infant Edition.