My littlest has gone wild. It was bound to happen. But for some reason I thought the crazy season started closer to18 months, and certainly not before 16.
I was wrong.
Or, more likely, the passage of time massaged my memories of toddlerhood, much like it did those of childbirth, so that I would actually go through with the whole shebang.
She is now a crazy woman much of the time. A very small cute crazy woman. Although I must admit that she is going through a bit of an awkward phase; her hair is in that uncomely growing-out stage, she's often sticky, and she could care less about snot running down her face. (Don't even get me started on the snot bubbles. Ew.)
She's also found her voice. Her loud voice. She can scream like nobody's business. And often does.
She cannot get enough of the contents of the recycling bin, but I do have to admit that it cracks me up every single time that I see her carrying an empty beer bottle around the house. (I never said I was mature.) Who knows what the neighbors say about her stale beer smell...
Today she came out of the pantry carrying the small Playmate cooler, it took both hands and all of her might, but she was fiercely determined to walk with that bad boy.
This week marks her first fulltime week at daycare. She seems to be doing pretty well, but she did get a short "time out" on day one. She insisted on standing on the table.
I'm hoping the beers, coolers, and table dancing are not harbingers of things to come.
But I can't worry about that now. I have to go extract the quarter from her mouth.
I love her with all my heart. I miss her during the day. But she really can be a big fat pain in the arse lately. I think the woman below might be on to something...