We haven’t actually been letting Margaret watch movies about taking rings to Mt. Doom and destroying them, but she still managed to mimic a classic pose today out in the yard.
I’m not sure what she was opposing so fiercely – perhaps Leo was looking particularly menacing – but she certainly kept whatever it was from going past her.
I have frequently lamented that Margaret is taller than any reasonable baby her age has any right to be. The reason this is an issue is that as she grows, there are fewer and fewer places that are safe from her marauding fingers.
Today, we left a loaf of bread too close to the edge of the table, and Margaret grabbed it. She got a piece out, and started chowing down.
We didn’t really get a good picture of her with bread and bag, because the minute I got close to her to take the picture, she figured that I was there to stop her fun, and took off.
In some cases, she ran really fast.
Anyway, she is now chowing down in her high chair. Apparently today was the day we decided to starve her. Poor Margaret.
Those people who knew me when I was 3 or 4 might remember that I had a propensity to kick things – soccer balls, shins, sheep, whatever – and so may be surprised by this video of Margaret.
I’ve tried and I’ve tried to explain to her that unless she’s the goalie, she has to use her feet, but she just won’t listen.
And now the spell-check is saying that mudlark isn’t a word, which goes to show what it knows. Of course, Margaret wasn’t actually trying to support herself by her muddy pursuits, but I think that it’s still an appropriate use of the word. After all, there was a minor river in our back yard last night, and she larked about in it.
Though she did seem to wonder what I was doing letting her play in the mud. Or perhaps that’s guilt.*
Anyway, whatever it was, she soon forgot it and went back to the lots of lovely muck at her feet.
*Also, I think that I’m going to submit this photo of her playing at the sewer grate along with the one of her playing with the propane tank to some sort of Mother of the Year contest, because I feel that those pictures would make me a shoo-in.
So I know that technically, I dress Margaret, and so it’s my fault when she’s wearing something inappropriate.
But I’ll tell you, I’m not the one that spent all of breakfast pulling at my slightly loose neckline to make it as droopy as I possibly could.
I just feel that she’s a little young for off-the-shoulder tops.
I think that I need to start watching Margaret in the exercise yard to make sure that she’s not dribbling dirt out of her pantleg, because she is definitely trying to escape.
We were playing in the yard today, and she decided to investigate the gate.
She couldn’t budge it by pushing on it, so she decided to try climbing.
And then she tried to look innocent about the whole thing.
Before going back to shake the gate one last time.
And then when that didn’t work, she called someone on her sunglasses to get them to come and do something about it. If her tone is anything to go by, she was quite upset by their failure. Remind me not to get on the rough side of her tongue.
I do think, however, that the logical next step is an attempt to burrow out.
Margaret has begun to make strides toward dressing herself. She’s not quite there yet, but she has certainly figured out how to make herself helpful when we’re putting her shirt on. The unfortunate flip-side of this is that she has figured out how to make herself the reverse of helpful as well, but we’re not focusing on that too much. I mean, “Margaret has learned to be a right pain when I’m trying to put her shirt on” doesn’t sound quite as good when I’m trying to convince all the other mothers at the park that Margaret is far superior to their piddling little babies.
Anyway, this morning at the zoo she took advantage of this new-found interest in dressing, and put her hat on by herself.
And then she started making dancing motions.
I really hope she isn’t planning on being a rapper. It just isn’t a predictable career, you know? I’m hoping for something like dentistry.
Every so often, Margaret has things that she needs to do.
And she will put up being interrupted once.
But the second time, she gives you a bit of a look.
And gets back to her important work.
No one tell her that the computer’s not on, all right?
Margaret, if given her way (and let’s be honest, she usually is when it isn’t harmful to her health or moral character), would spend at least a half an hour in the yard every morning when we get back from taking Leo to work.
So that’s pretty much what we do, and she and I run around and play. I am, should anyone be interested, a very accomplished stick-into-bucket putter, and I also excel at bucket maintenance. Buckets play a very important role in our lives.
But this morning, before we left to take Leo, I neglected to put Margaret’s shoes on. My plan, once I realized my error, was that we would run inside when we got home and stick her feet into shoes, before dashing back out.
Unfortunately, she lacks the verbal skills to comprehend this plan, and all she got out of it was GOING INSIDE WITHOUT PLAYING, which was apparently the worst thing EVER.
So I put her down on her bare feet, and she had no idea what to make of that. She wanted to run, but it wasn’t comfortable, and I admit that I watched her struggles with a certain amount of amusement.
Her solution to the problem suggests that the hamsters in her brain are doing really well. She grabbed my hand and led me across the yard to the swing, steadying herself on me when she stepped on something unpleasantly knobbly. And when we got there, she made clear “up” gestures, so I would know that she had designs on the swing.
And then she proceeded to enjoy herself.
And then she tried to sell me a used car.
And the thing is, I’m pretty sure that it was my car she was trying to sell me, since she wouldn’t be able to get her hands on any other cars, which makes it even worse.
Also, when the time came to go in, she made the sign for “more” (which she uses to mean “food”) and said something – several times – which sounded like it might be breakfast.
First, why is it that “donut” is so much more common than “doughnut”? I would prefer to eat something that was once dough than something that was once do. I mean, it’s not like it even makes it that much easier to pronounce, since “dough” is always pronounced “doe” and “do” is – except in the case of “donut,” pronounced “doo” (or “dew,” if you want a less scatological pronunciation guide.
But I digress.
Every so often on a Saturday morning, Margaret and I venture out to get coffee and some sort of pastry something for breakfast. Margaret has begun to take an interest in what is going on.
And she’s learned to look at me cutely and imploringly.
This may become a problem.
We went out to the Botanical Garden again this morning, because the weather was cooperating a little more than it did on Thursday. We decided to try out the baby backpack, and let Margaret walk a lot more than we usually do. It helped that we had five adults to keep her from escaping. She seemed to have a lot of fun with her freedom, and walked a lot of the time.
The Garden has a bunch of treehouses (none of which are actually built in trees, but many of which are built around trees) on display, and so we took the opportunity given us by the strollerless Margaret to explore them.
She thought it was pretty cool.
But she is developing a passion for seats, particularly those that are her size. She climbed up on the seat in one of the tree houses, and then climbed down.
She also was styling in her sunshades, which she wears around her neck a lot, because that is where she has the manual dexterity to put them, and so that’s where they will stay, thank you very much.
I took Margaret in to have some more pictures done today, because I feel that it is a good thing to get professional shots taken every so often, and because I failed entirely in taking pictures of her in her Easter dress.
Apparently 15 months is one of the hardest ages to take pictures of, since the kids are old enough to run, but not old enough to listen when you tell them to sit (or, perhaps more likely, not old enough to listen when you tell them that if they please, please sit still and smile, you will take them to an ice cream parlor afterwards and let them eat until they are sick).
Margaret behaved like a champ.*
I mean, it’s not that she wasn’t squirmy. She would sit still long enough to get one photo,
and then stand up
and head out.
But we still managed to get some good pictures.
There’s one where she demonstrates her new word.
There’s one where she poses as a damsel in distress.
There’s one where she pauses in her flight to laugh at me.
She also gave us some good close-ups.
Oh, and they had a chair that she loved. There were recriminations when we removed her from it.
Also, they pulled down a stadium background and gave her a baseball glove, and she got ready to play.
I don’t know how I’m going to break it to her that they don’t make cleats in her size.
*I’m not sure if there are picture-taking championships, but of there are, she is certainly in the running for them.
We went to the Botanical Garden again today, despite the rather inclement weather. It was a very Port Angeles sort of walk, and Margaret took to it like a . . . well, like a duck to water.
When we got back to the car, she was rather damp, and a little uncertain about getting into her carseat without a change of clothes.
But I reasoned with her, and she was amused by that.
Very amused, in fact.
Yeah, there’s really no story here except that we went on a walk, and I was going to take pictures of damp and bedraggled Margaret, and I got three I thought were cute. But you have to admire the effort I put in to grafting narrative onto this pictures, don’t you?
Also, Leo thinks that in the second picture she looks ridiculously like my mom, which is funny, because in this picture
which I posted previously, my mother thinks that she looks ridiculously like Leo.
Clearly, the conclusion is that my mom looks like Leo (or vice-versa) and that’s too weird to contemplate.
