sooooo....I have the funniest kid ever. She kills me.
This morning after I took The Small One's nighttime diaper off, I left her butt bare to air out for a bit. She wears cloth diapers, so they don't suck the moisture off her bum.
So, there I was in the bathroom getting ready for work, having left The Small One to be watched by her loving daddy. Suddenly, I hear a shout from loving daddy and the pitter patter of small running footsteps. I stepped from the bathroom to see what had happened and discovered that The Small One had accidentally sharted on the floor. Oh, dear, that was funny. She thought she just had gas, turns out it was a little more than that. Mike said that he heard her toot and looked over to see her surprised face as she bolted for the bathroom. Poor baby. She sat down on her potty and kept looking at me and saying "poo?" I told her yes, it sure was. I couldn't stop laughing.
Also...the other day, we were hanging out at Memaw's house and The Small One got an ink spot on her wrist. Over to me she toddles. Mamma! Mamma! I look down and she hold her wrist up for my view. I look down. "What is it?" "A tattoo!" she says.
I cannot possibly have heard this right.
"A what?" I say.
Really? Can she possibly know that word? I know that she knows a lot of words, but tattoo?
So, I show her a picture of a tattoo. "What is that?" I ask her. "A tattoo!" she answers. Then points to her own wrist. "Wook, Mamma! Tattoo!"
Dear heaven above. That is what she was saying. She knows what a tattoo is. Is this wrong? I realize that my nephew, who spends a lot of time at Memaw's and consequently with The Small One (he is 4, she thinks he belongs to her), loves temporary tattoos and usually has one when he comes over. So, I know the origin of the word, but, really? How does she know that?
Lately, because Mike is out of a job, he is home in the mornings when The Small One wakes up. She climbs into bed with us when she awakes and proceeds to harass daddy until he wakes up himself.
Which he does not love.
But I do. I find it highly amusing.
This morning, for some unknown reason, she needed to walk across the top of the bed, over and over. The problem? Well, daddy's head was in the way. She walked to my side, turned around, walked to Daddy's side. Head. "Moof!" she says. Daddy lifts his weary head. She passes and he lays back down. The Small One turns around to traipse back the way she came. Again, there is a head in her way. "Moof!' she commands. Again, the weary head lifts briefly as she passes. This happens 2 or 3 more times. Daddy finally gets sick of it and scoots down to the bottom of the bed.
At which time, the game ceases to be amusing, so The Small One stops.
For some unknown reason, if The Small One has a bottle at home during the day, it requires laying in my bed to do so. I don't know why, that is just what she does.
So, she asks for her 'bobble' and follows me into the kitchen as I go to make it. After she has verified that I am indeed making the bottle, she toddles off to the bedroom saying "nigh-nigh!" A few seconds later I hear a squeal of fright. I take the bottle into the bedroom to find her clinging to the bedside table and the side of the bed with a grip of death. One hand has hold of the table, one hand the top of the mattress and her tiny toes are hanging on for all they are worth to the very small ledge formed by the bed frame. She looks at me. "Mamma! Tuck! (stuck...this is one of my favorite words for some reason. It's just funny!) I rescued her, of course, and she took her bottle and drained it. Don't worry, she will try to climb up herself again, the child has no fear. In fact, she has discovered the great joy to be found in climbing up things and jumping off to waiting arms. This would be fine, except I worry that she will forget to tell the arms they ought to catch her and one day will just jump, hoping for the best. And it may not be the best.