First 52: month 8, week 35 (you ain’t ready)

She tosses my keys, listening to the jingle of too many shinnies as they clash. Intently, she inspects them in momentary pause. Surely one deserves to be in her mouth? “No, no! Get that out of…” She giggles, smiles in sweet mischief she’s not aware she’s committing. (Or maybe, she is.) She sings, not yet reaching for words but intoning in melodies mimicking “I love you.”  It’s enough for us who’ve become her minions, answering to her changing whims.

She rests her head on my stomach. Mere seconds pass, and she rises to unsteady feet. She wobbles, arms flailing for balance before knees bend and she plops down on diapered booty.  A box of bows – one of many modeling pretties around the house – draws her attention next.  Earlier, she’d wanted nothing to do with them. Now, however,  she wants to toss them about, toy with textures between her fingers, watch flickers of light in the affixed jewels.

Next, she blows raspberries on my exposed stomach. She stands,  suddenly, and squeals. Rico has been spotted! Surely he will whisk her away to play?  She’ll cry if he retreats without her. But he slinks out at first notice of her distraction – a sparkly on a bright yellow hair ornament. She smiles in return for my “look at you!” when next she stands, each time longer without support.

ri busy web

She quiets her humming when I request “say mama mama mama.” Then she smiles with her eyes, as though holding a secret to my happiness. Call her name and she smiles more,  but avoids eye contact. The channel changer draws her attention next, push a few buttons and they glow, a few more and the picture box flips scenes. Perhaps she’ll find Sprout, where Chica Chica chirps in aggravatingly high octaves. The remote, like the phone, is coveted. Play with either and draw quick results.

She bounces open-mouthed across my chest.  Time to nurse again.  Later, she’ll decline baby minces in favor of people food requiring teeth she does not have.  She’ll sip from a straw after refusing her age appropriate sippy cup.  She’ll crawl quickly across the floor identifying what vacuum and siblings left to entice perfect-sighted eyes. She’ll rub eyes with balled fists, pull curled rings of brown-red-blonde hair. And she’ll be ready to cuddle with me before slipping into dreams.

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