Ladybug was a fairly laid back baby. When I was pregnant she just kind of hung out. She was the least active baby out of my bunch. When she was born she refused to take a breath on her own. I think the girl was in denial that she had to do a little work on her own. And as a baby, she just hung out on my left hip and watched the world go by. She was the cheerful chubby cherub who had a deep belly laugh and a content disposition.
Now she’s become a tiny terror. She’s still as sweet as ever but she can get into trouble faster than I can turn around. I cannot keep up with her or keep her contained. She is the child who learned how to climb out of her crib, escaping to roam the house unnoticed. She would suddenly appear by the bedside staring straight into my face and give me nightly heart attacks. Baby gates were no defense against chubs. Nope, she would ram the baby gate until she knocked it free and then she would tear through the house, relishing her freedom. Escape artist!
Let’s talk about this past week shall we? She has ground 3 separate colors of oil pastel into our carpet. She has peeled the paper off a dozen crayons and then broken them to bits. She decorated one wall, her rocking chair, and her door with a bright pink marker. (It took forever to scrub that off and destroyed a magic eraser). She used permanent marker to decorate a table and one of Curly’s toys. She cut several papers into teeny tiny pieces – they weren’t just scrap papers. She has gone through two boxes of wipes, finding them, opening them, and strewing them about the room until it looks like blizzard conditions. She has dumped out a zillion tiny sparkle magnetic mosaic tiles of Bee’s. She did this 3 separate times! She poured a container of hundreds of pony beads through 4 different rooms and threw them down the stairs. She drizzled her milk across the table and flour, tossed her applesauce across the room, and turned her bowl of dinner upside-down on the living room floor twice (why did I keep refilling her bowl????). She firmly believes that bath water belongs outside the tub, toothpaste is meant to be worn, and tempera paint tastes good.
Yesterday she walked into the room where I was nursing Punkin. She had that impish grin that I’ve grown to greatly distrust. She sat down on the floor just on the other side of the bed and was all too quiet. I asked her what she was doing. Her little head popped up and she gave me that stare that tells me she’s up to no good. She had one hand stuffed up her shirt and there was a strangely shaped bulge under her shirt. Then we started our staring contest. She may have a career in poker, so serious is her little face, and she has never lost a stare-down yet. I raised my eyebrows and waited. I asked her what was in her hand. She never blinked. Finally she pulled her hand out from under her shirt and she was holding a pair of scissors. And what was she chopping to bits? The brand new container of wipes that I bought to replace all the dried out wipes that were her snowstorm from earlier in the week.
I’m just glad it’s summer. I would not get any school down with Dr. Destructo wandering the house! What am I going to do when school time comes?