The little scamp climbed out of her crib last night. Silently at that. I'm torn between feeling pride and fear of what the future holds.
Helena is an expert climber. Stairs. The ladder up to the slide at the park. The stepping stool up to the bathroom counter for hand-washing and teeth-brushing practice. Into her chair at the kitchen table.
Bedtime was hard this weekend.
It must be teething. It couldn't be simply the excitement of mastering climbing, or all that fresh air. Though she is excitable, generally she takes everything in its stride.
She seems to really dig hanging out with me, but wailing when we part at the end of the day just isn't her style. It must be teething.
We've had some great excursions of late.
Caught in a downpour last week, she laughed up a storm. We were soaked. It was almost romantic.
I'm loving the park in the morning as much as Helena is, now that I have the sense to take a coffee with me.
I was disheartened to find a broken beer bottle in the playground yesterday. But every park in all neighbourhoods has its incidents (I tell myself). There's no reason (yet) to suspect the place is overrun with hooligans. I scoured that ground and picked up all the shards. This is my park after all.
On a super happy note, the ducks are back! Four adult males out for a swim. Only two adult females visible in the reeds behind the theatre, but a few handfuls of little ones (I lost count at 14) out stretching their wings.