At 20 months…
My girl. Our girl. Our baby.
I wonder what it will be like for her, growing up with everyone feeling as though she’s the baby, with everyone picking her up, holding her, helping her, giving her a hand, nurturing her as people only nurture the baby.
She is WILD. She won’t be told no. She climbs as high as she can. She runs from activity to activity. She cannot wait. To do everything.
Even when I beg her to please, please PLEASE slow down.
She has walked for more than half of her life. She runs. She dances. She twirls. She sings.
“Sweet Caroline” we prompt.
“Bum, bum, bum” she answers.
We all melt. She is smart. She is tenacious. She tells us no in a sing-song voice, one hand extended palm out in front of her, waving it for affect.
She sleeps in the middle. Her arms flung wide. One hand reaching for Big Daddy, one hand reaching for me. She insists. She demands. We give in.
She’s the baby.
She perches on the steps with a little purse slung over her arm. She loads in treasures. She falls, looks around, gets back up and does it all over again. That’s a trait I pray she keeps. That she’ll fight forward even when it hurts or even when it gets hard because the thing she wants at the end of the fight is worth fighting for.
My girl. My baby.