I struggle to pull the white opalescent button from her mouth. Small teeth and a strong jaw clamp down on my hand.
Her small hands reach up to my face and she strokes my cheek.
Such is life with a 19 month-old. I walk on egg shells, never really knowing where her mood will take her. She goes from hugs and kisses to a tumultuous melt-down in seconds flat. The good news is that her mood swings are tempered by a generally fun personality. She smiles more than she cries and still giggles more than she throws herself on the ground, flailing in protest. She likes to make me laugh. And, she makes me laugh a lot. She is an old soul.
She says some of the most hilarious things. It amazes me that I understand her so well. Apparently, she inherited my love of language and will likely drive many people crazy in the future by chatting incessantly to anyone with ears. I imagine that one day she and I will have some lively conversations. She also seems to be an heir to her daddy’s ability to curse like a sailor. To our consternation, she effortlessly drops the “F” bomb at seemingly “appropriate” times. By no means am I saying that the “F” word is ever appropriate for a child to say, but what I mean is that she says it when you would typically say it, like when she spills her juice or drops a book out of her crib.