At 18 months, Abby, you are earning the name Little Shit outright. You have taken to hitting and biting as well as pinching, usually on Buzz, although the cat gets beat up, too. I can’t help but think this is a defense mechanism, and while probably needed, there are less hurtful options we need to explore. You are also loud enough to wake up astronauts orbiting in space, although this isn’t new.
Right after lunch, so her face is still messy.
As well as my little helper, you have also become a tattletale. You are exuberant and determined and I dare anyone try to take away whatever little piece has made it’s way into your shockingly strong grip. You test your boundaries daily, finding humor in my frustration. Stubborn and mischievous, I’m scared of what would happen if I took my eyes off of you for more than a minute. In other words, you are a typical, normal kid.
And yes, that is a summer dress over her pajamas.
But then, you stick your face right in front of mine for a kiss. “I love you”, you say, in jumbled beginner-speak. This makes everything else worthwhile.
You reach out to wrap your little hand around my finger as we walk, then you let go to run. Walking is for babies, apparently, and you, my dear girl, are no longer a baby. Though try as you might, you still have a bit of trouble keeping up. Then again, so do I.
What can I say? The girl has style.
I’m not gonna lie, these past 18 months haven’t been all sunshine and daisies. But one thing is certain: you are an amazing little girl and I am so proud and grateful to be your mom.
With all the love in my heart,