Dear Eirinn,
Next time you want to finger paint the couch with raspberry jam, ask your father. He’ll say no, too. And throwing yourself onto the floor, kicking your legs, and screaming like a banshee won’t work with him either.
Jam is for toast, not furniture.
Love, your mom. The boss. (Remember that.)
My baby is growing up; rapidly becoming a little girl. A little big girl. She is learning at an astronomical rate. Everyday brings new real english words (todays word of the day – ketchup) and new acrobatic moves; all wonderful surprises.
This weekend, she decided she is much too old to be fed dinner. She can do it herself now, thank you very much. Oh, and bibs are for babies (which she is not). Eirinn prefers not to wear one, as she is far too mature (by ‘prefers not’, I mean she screams bloody murder as the bib approaches, rips it from her neck, and heaves it onto the floor).
She fed herself mashed potatoes and yogurt and was pretty good at it for her first try. Tonight she tried shepherd’s pie. She is also brushing her own teeth, brushing her own hair (what little of it she has – stop laughing, she’s not bald), and walking, not crawling, up and down stairs just holding our hand.
If I wasn’t so darn proud of every new skill she learns, I would be sad about losing my baby.
Eirinn is a hobbit. She eats breakfast, second breakfast, morning tea, brunch, and elevensies. And then couldn’t care less if she eats again the rest of the day. Today she had her cereal, shared Niall’s cereal, then my cereal. When I dropped her off at my moms for daycare, she (Eirinn) immediately began searching the cupboards for something to have for brunch.
At home before we left, I was making lunches with the fridge open, which automatically draws Eirinn in (fridge open? Gah!!! Attack!). She saw the carton of strawberries, grabbed it and shook it, grunting uhn uhn uhn. She wants some, right? I take a nice big ripe one out of the box, de-leaf it, wash it, sit her on my lap far, far away from any furniture that will stain and offer her the strawberry. She took the teensiest, tiniest bite, munged it around in her mouth for a few seconds and spat it onto her shirt.
Apparently I looked bored and she was just finding something for me to do. Jerk.
