Right now I'm watching you stand at your little play table and create a cacophony of noise. Some of it is that irritating table that has somehow survived your older siblings and is now singing at you whenever you whack the appropriate colored tabs. The other is a mix of laughter and a long WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE of discontent. You keep changing moods at the speed of light, Milly Bean. Can we discuss your bipolar nature? I hardly have time to get the camera up to get that cute picture before you're off again with the WOE IS ME and OMG I'M TIRED BUT I'M NOT TIRED PICK ME UP NOW PUT ME DOWN.
Now you're in my lap watching me type and grinding your teeth. You only have 5, darling. Is that the best idea? Also, can I have my arm back? Typing with one hand is difficult. Can I offer you a cold teether? You're the only one who likes icy cold teethers. The others always spit them out and gave me awful looks. You chew so hard I'm honestly afraid you're going to puncture them. Seriously, I've already googled "Is the stuff in teething rings poisonous?" Still, I would rather you work out those puppy teeth on hard frozen plastic than my hands. You've already drawn blood. TWICE.
Aaand you just spit up. Not on yourself, mind you, but on the couch. You have perfected the art of leaning over and yacking on me, the furniture or anything else. You rarely spit up on yourself. I keep bibs on you but it makes no difference. One can only hope that your marksmanship turns into a good quality. Maybe you'll work for the CIA one day.
As I watch you crawl all over the living room, I'm struck by how big you are. Wasn't I just whining about your feet in my ribs last week? Now you're 18 pounds of determination ready to follow your sister and brother wherever they go. You cruise, crawl and are ready to walk at any time. You have very little interest in staying still. There's too much to see and do. There are toys to fling, books to inspect and forgotten Cheerios to choke on.
I love you, Millicent. I love your spirit, your laugh and your chubby, cuddly little body. I love how you curl up with me for your last bottle of the day and then jam your thumb in your mouth with a sigh before fluttering your long lashes onto your full cheeks. I love your curiosity and will. Every time you tumble down to the floor, you shake your little head and climb right back up. When it's a little too hard then you cry for kisses.
Mama will always kiss your hurts, Baby Girl.