She is utter mischief these days.
She is not interested in napping in her own bed. We find her sleeping on her floor, in her sister's bed, in the hallway, on our own bedroom floor. Wedged into her baby doll's tiny pack'n'play behind the bunk beds. On the carpet in the guest room. In the bathroom cabinet with the bathroom door locked (please don't ask).
She is quite attached to her yellow ducky lovey, now affectionately called "Lovely Carrot."
While I was upstairs the other day visiting the--ahem--ladies' room, she sprinkled confectioner's sugar all over the kitchen and living room. Do you know how hard it is to clean up confectioner's sugar? Especially when the preschooler has tried to wipe it up with wet washcloths and the dogs have been licking it? Not much could be vacuumed up; most of it had to be mopped. And mopped again. And yet again. (Our floors resembled Krispy Kreme donuts for a while.)
While she was supposedly "napping" last week, she covered her arms, legs, neck, chin, and cheeks up to her eyeballs with a slathering of Nivea cream so thick she looked like she was in a body cast. The Nivea also ended up on our guest room table, rocking chair, carpet, a stack of certificates, and the glass of about 10 to 15 picture frames I had laid out on the floor to design a collage for the wall. Did I mention she tried to clean this mess up, too? Many of the globs of Nivea around the room also had shriveled bits of tissues glommed onto them.
But I shouldn't dwell solely on her naughtiness. She is still pure joy. Pure love.
She smiles almost all day long. She still has those killer dimples. She says she "mith-ith Jih-zee" when Jillson is at school. If her big sister is being a whiner about something she'll say "It's okay, Jih-zee, you can have mine!"
She is very concerned with overall mood. She asks me out of the blue "Are you happy?" with great regularity. If I say "yes" she says "okay" and beams. If I say anything else (such as "Mommy's not unhappy" or "Mommy's disappointed") she'll want to know when I will be happy again. "Are you happy now, Mama? Are you happy now?"
Like her big sister, she is eager for the baby to "come out." She wants to hold the baby and "teach her everything to do."
She is a Daddy's Girl, constantly asking when he will be home.
She wants everything to be the "same as." If I put on flip-flops, she puts on flip-flops. If the Gutsy Dad wears crocs; she wears crocs. She squeals with glee: "We are the SAME AS!" (A month or so ago, when she was erroneously saying "same than"--because of the phrase "different than"--I explained that it was supposed to be "same as." Now I can't get her to say just "same." It's always "same as.")
She also says "I welcome" instead of "you're welcome."
She prays for "Kiki's Leg" and for Charlotte before bed almost every night.*
She is starting to wear underwear out in the big, big world. So far she has had one dinner outing and one morning at preschool in underwear. Success. (She is still in a diaper for naps and bedtime.)
She loves bread smeared with peanut butter and honey, chocolate milk, and corn on the cob.
And I love her.
I love you, my little meatball, I love you so much. And you know what? I know my love for you is big enough to stretch all the way around your great, big personality.
Bring it on, Moop.
(All photos from August 2011, except for the last which was taken today.)
*(My father's injured leg which is steadily healing; my parents' dog.)