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.
