One thing this kid is definitely doing, is asking me to trust her. Early and often.
It's been a long time since I've been around little tinies, so I can't quite remember how independent they are, and how soon. But I do know this King baby sure does seem to conquer and own her space. And climb it and try to escape it and run acrost it.
I was working at my desk a couple of weeks ago when I turned around to this:
"This box was here. So I was supposed to climb onto it, right?"
Well, yeah, actually. Life is full of boxes, and you either climb them or you walk on by because you don't think you can climb them.
No surprise that the next day she'd not only climbed onto the box, but had first dragged it to that door so she could fiddle with the handle.
And then the other day, I turn around to this:
"Oh, just hanging out on my couch, ma. I'm gonna shuffle down in just about one minute so you can continue to take my picture. Like I like."
I was washing dishes recently, with a view of that there couch. I popped my head up from scrubbing a plate to see King not only on it, but elbows perched on the back so she could get a good view through the window to the street below. Then she walked the length of the couch, back and forth. I couldn't see her feet, but my mama brain was pretty sure they were teetering along the edge. Trust, mama, trust! Anyway, I'm good at falling.
I'm more of a gray-leggings-and-onesie mama. Gray sneakers, even, with little blue shoestrings. But this doll has started reaching for headbands and hats and pink and dresses.
In fact, she absolutely cannot get enough of hats, and herself in them. She perches them on her head and then runs over to her little toy mirror and laaaauuuughs.
And it doesn't have to be a hat, necessarily. Just as long as it can sit on her head.
So it's, like, "Trust me ma. I like these things, see? And can we start talking about my plans to climb INTO Mount St. Helens in a sequined gown? Because I've been thinking about it ..."
Man, this girl. I like her. I like my little heart attacks every day, and slowly and silently running up behind her because she—oh, I don't know—is perched on her belly, on the edge of a table, three feet off the ground because she finally figured out how to do it.
She's a tough little piece of bread. I'll regret the day I ever put in writing that I'm grateful she hasn't gotten herself into too much trouble. But until that awful day that will never actually come, I'm learning how to stay a little further away, for just sweet extra moments, watching her explore.