Miss Chevious

I love my daughter.

I really do.

IloveherIloveherIloveherIloveher.

But oh my golly if she isn't the naughtiest little 20 month old I've ever come across then I'm a monkey's uncle. Monkey aunt, maybe. Monkey's uncle, definitely not.

Parenting Lila has been a most humbling honor. With your third child, there is definitely a sort of "I know what I'm doing, this is old hat" mentality. Of course factoring in that each child brings different personality traits to the table makes this mentality absolutely mental. She might as well be my first baby, because I know nothing.

My boys, by comparison, were so much easier at this age. They liked me to play with them, but they were content on their own as well. It was a beautiful marriage of together time, them having independent time and me having time to take care of, I don't know, the rest of our life's pesky little nuances like dishes and laundry. And maybe a little online shopping in between.

But Lila, my dear sweet Lila, will have none of this. She's happy to sit, so long as her seat is my lap. She's happy to play, so long as I play along side her. Which is all fine and dandy until there's seven loads of laundry waiting to be folded, a pile of bills to be paid and flies are swarming around the kitchen sink (no, not really, but perhaps there might be if the windows were open).

I try to load the dishwasher, she gleefully slams it shut. After which she pronounces her joy at its closure by shouting "Yay!" in a most adorable, albeit frustrating fashion.

If I sit down at the computer for five seconds, just five little seconds please to make contact with the outside world, she comes over, throws my hand off the mouse, shoots her hands in the air and says, "Uh!" (Translation: Up, she doesn't do the "p" sound quite yet.) I used to be able to hold her in my left arm and compute with my right, but then it dawned on her precious little blonde head that all those fancy buttons on the laptop actually do something. So that honeymoon is over.


Even trying to take a picture of her is not without its challenges, as now she like to reach out, grab the camera strap and try to wrench it from my hands. She finds this to be quite a jovial little wrestling match.

After a day of the gym, grocery shopping, a round of baby dolls, and hour of books, lunch, helping her try on every pair of shoes we both own, and playing a super fun little game where she pulled everything out of my bathroom drawers while I was in the shower, I finally sit down on the couch for a break. What does Lila do? Climbs up next to me, but instead of sitting down with me like Mason or Cole would have done at this age, she picks up the remote and clocks me in the head with it. Hard. Translations: Insolent woman, you are not done entertaining me! Get up!

And then, she reached down and with a look of positive glee on her cherubic little face, she grabbed a fist full of my hair. And as if she was a little vicious Gymboree wearing vice grip, she pulled my hair harder than it's been pulled since I lived in Baltimore and got into a fist fight in the street with the "Reverend Rickey's" daughter when we were 9 years old (and he wasn't a reverend, if you know what I mean).

I love her, immensely, but it's Friday, it's been a long week, and I'm two steps from crazy. Forgive me.

Lord help me now. Grant me the strength to raise this child to adulthood.

Preferably with both of us in one piece and with some hair left on my head.


P.S. One cute new trick? When she wants her diaper changed she fetches one and lays down on the floor next to wherever I am, and sticks her legs in the air. Well, I think it's cute at least.