Yesterday, E pulled herself up in her baby bed. She was supposed to be sleeping, but instead, she was squealing and banging and tossing the contents of her crib overboard. After a good half hour of listening to her NOT going back to sleep, I gave up and went to rescue her. It was 6am.
When I opened her door, she screamed in joy and jumped up and down, up and down. She threw a binkie at me and it hit me squarely in the shin. OUCH! And then she laughed at me. Even though she is the one in a baby-containment device, clearly, I am the prisoner here. She's such a beautiful and perfect little terrorist. Are we really past the infant stage already? We are. We are hurtling towards the toddler stage quicker and quicker. When did she get so big?! And demanding?!
I scooped her up, changed her, and deposited her in the pack n play (Stephen calls it the Baby Bastille) so I could whip up some breakfast. She can no longer be trusted unattended on the floor, lest she eat a Chewie furball or explore the inner workings of an electrical outlet in the 20 to 30 seconds I might have my back turned. I'm feeling lazy so I make her a half banana and two pieces of PB toast, sans crust. She eats every last crumb and downs a half-filled sippy cup of coconut milk. Now she's ready to rock n roll. Time to overturn toy baskets and try to touch the entertainment center and inspect her newest obsession: the carseat.
She's such a big girl already! She has fully mastered the pull up in one day. She gets on her knees and reaches up for a steadying hand-hold. Then she lifts her scuffed-up baby legs, one at a time, and grunts like an old man until she gets her feet properly planted. It's so cute because she's so PROUD. It's like she invented this standing business, despite the fact that Mommy and Daddy do this kind of thing all the time. Of course, I fight back the urge to tell her this. I clap instead.
Next up is walking I guess and I'm nearly fainting at the prospect. I'm so not ready.