She thinks she’s a super hero.  A baby who can climb the ladder to the top of sissies’ bunk beds, can figure out that the kitchen chair to the top of the table isn’t too high and puts her at an advantage for more Frosted Flakes, one who truly believes that an arm cross and a firm “uh-uh” is going to save her from the agony of another nap.

She’s only 16 months old.  Sheesh, what am I going to do?

It’s not even July yet, and she’s already learned so many habits from those sissy monsters.  Like how to color outside the lines (or on the coffee table), how to slide down the big water slide at the Elrod’s, how to give a grin that melts my heart and my resolve.  What a mess.

I love it.  I hate it.  I miss my baby who cooed and snuggled and stayed in one place.

But she’s gone. And in her place is a sweet little Millie-Monster who has a fiery temper, a feisty temperment, and a fresh take on being the baby. 

Her sisters call her a big girl already.  Especially when I defend her for making a mess of Madelynne’s dollhouse or destroying the artwork hung too low on the fridge.  “She’s NOT a baby!” They tell me emphatically.  Well, maybe not.  But she’s my baby.

She’s talking more, though “uh-uh” and “uh-huh” she deems sufficient for everything.  We’re working on please, but at least she’ll attempt “thank you” after she gets what she wants.  Last night she made me read her favorite lift-the-flap books a half dozen times so she could moo and buzz and oink. 

Sometimes the only way she’ll decide she’s through with dinner and demanding “moe, moe!” is when Daddy says, “Are you ready for a bath?”  Head bobbing and arms up, she babbles, “Baff, baff!” 

She’s a water bug.  Later this week, I’ll post swim lesson pictures.  She’s most put out she’s not participating.  Yet another activity for the sissies.  No wonder she wants to grow up.