The baby has learned to open the fridge door.   This perhaps is the watershed moment when I should stop calling her The Baby.   I’ll get over it, i can still call her tinyHuman, and soon there will be another baby.

Opening a large door with weatherstripping is a herculean accomplishment when you are 31lbs. Its like walking out of Somalia and finding yourself at the front door to Golden Corral. I’ve let her fetch her chocolate milk, and her apples, and her yogurt.   Its healthy and filling and saves me time in the mornings.   But now she’s started getting out fake-syrup and pasta, and making herself a dish of fake-syrup dipped in pasta.   Health implications aside, the sticky mess is a pain in my ass.   On the drive into daycare she complained about how sticky her hands felt, and i reminded her of how her hands got sticky, then she complained when i washed her hands at school.

I should have known this was coming by her habit of filling Kila’s dish past overflowing with kibble, leading to her emptying Kila’s bag of snack treats before the supine dog on guest room floor, and placing a tidy pile of rawhide bones in front of the dog on the bed. Its cute when its feeding the pets; its gluttonous and filthy when its feeding herself. She is close to thinking she can crack her own eggs, and only my rapier-quick wit in asking her to mix in a helping of peas saved me from a having a frittata crisis on my hands. I know soon the milk jug will make the briefest of layovers in her tinyHands, en route to a bullseye on the kitchen floor. Hopefully Kila will help clean it.