This is my adorable child.
She knows she’s adorable. She’s well aware that she is hilarious most of the time. She knows exactly what I mean when I start counting, but she still ignores me about half the time. She is so much a tiny adult. She holds regular sized pencils correctly, picks up cheerios one at a time, sits with her right leg crossed over the left at the ankle. She is not a baby, anymore.
And I know all the precious moments we spend together really do make a difference. The language that I use and the way I speak to her affect her at a very basic level. So, I know a stern soft voice is better than a loud voice, and the way I pat her gently to get her going in the right direction is better than shoving. I see the way she gets our cat to move exactly the same way – a few soft pats and “Go, go, Roxy.” She likes to line things up single file – including but not limited to her many different kinds of blocks and every shampoo and soap bottle in our bathroom. She’s starting to dress herself, and actually gets her shoes on the right feet slightly more than 50% of the time. She reaches for things on higher shelves and she climbs on things to reach even higher shelves. She likes to open and close drawers and cabinets. She already loves the feeling of accomplishing even the smallest tasks on her own, and she would rather not have any help from me, thank you very much.
I seem to remember this time when she wanted my help, when she snuggled for more than 30 seconds, when she wasn’t a perpetual motion device for an hour before bed. I do love this stage she’s in, all her energy and curiosity, and every new skill. But I live for Peanut’s bedtime in a way I never could have imagined. I also never could have imagined that nearly two years after her birth, I still live for every smile and giggle, I still want to cry when she cries (though I am much better at pretending to be tough), and I am still beyond stumped as to why my heart doesn’t literally explode in my chest with all the love I feel.