You have ants in your pants.
Even as you are giving into sleep, in my arms in the rocker, your feet are go-go-going. They never stop.
Show you a mountain and you'll climb it. It's insane, really, how fearless and at the ready you are for everything.
I watched you play with some littles Sunday night- girls. The three of you sat on your blanket and played with babies and keys and cell phones and purses and dump trucks. You were sitting, actually on your tushie, playing and interacting so nicely.
18 seconds went by ...
Then, you were gone. Trying to climb onto the windowsill so you could peer at the neighbors. Watch the dog pee on a tree. See the cars drive by. I do love that you gave sit-still playing a chance, but it's clearly not you. I feel and know that is not who you are. The littles kept playing, completely content and oblivious to the blur that was you.
Daddy and I are unfazed by your willingness to turn laundry baskets and empty Cruisers boxes into stepping stools. We don't even notice how close to the edge of anything you are anymore, until we hear someone gasp and reach out for you. You've narrowly escaped gushing head wounds and split eyebrows by millimeters. You smile, we exhale.
Your new favorite adventure is the dining room table. Daddy likes to do an Olympic commentary featuring you as ShaunJohn, the teeny gymnast Shaun Johnson. Little girl, huge spirit- a lot like someone we know.
You, my dear, score a Perfect 10.