My little Quince, you are getting to be quite the adorable little handful. Climbing (and falling down) stairs, pulling knives out of the dishwasher, chasing your father out the front door (and getting stuck when it inevitably closed on you)… We are (happily) past the days when I felt compelled to check your breathing three times a night, but that paranoia has been replaced with a whole new host of fears about what might befall you while I wash the dishes, or pee, or blink.
Gone, too, are the days of you chilling silently in the k’tan for hours on end. You are still an exceptionally happy little baby, but as often as not, you are LOUD. I love our little babble conversations. We’ve been working on signing, but I swear, more often than you’ve signed ‘more,’ you’ve said it. Mimicry, but still. Less pleasant is the little pterodactyl scream you resort to when food/beverage/toy is out of your reach. And diaper changes… goodness. They are beginning to feel more like rodeo work. I need earplugs.
All the same, I’m happy to see some spunk in you. I think it’ll serve you well. Actually, it already is. Like, when you’re in the stroller with June, and she is hoarding some toy you want, and you get a handful of her hair to amuse yourself with instead. J: “Mom, help! She got me!” Me: “Give her the toy! Quick, give her the toy!”
My cheek-pinching, glasses-stealing, nose-licking little lovebug. I love you so much.