Last evening, I bent over the bath and began filling up the tub for two little boys that were covered, from head to toe, in dirt. I lifted myself off of my knees and stood up to a smiling Wren Margaret, in her daddy's arms, expectantly reaching towards the tub. We couldn't say no.
She loves water and especially splashing, the louder and messier the better. She loves her doggie and the painting of two kitties in her room. She points at the painting eagerly waiting for me to say to her, "what do the kitties say?" She smiles and jabbers.
Her vocabulary is growing and includes woof, doggie, hi, I love you, mama, dada, and all done. She loves to wave and clap. She adores her brothers and is bored to tears without them. She loves noisy things, like the blender for instance, and watches bravely while her brothers cover their ears and stare at her. She loves taking apart her brothers' wooden train tracks. She laughs when we laugh. She has thee best sense of humor. She refuses to keep her hair bow in. She is getting a pretty bad reputation in the church nursery. She might not like to say goodbye to mama. She is the proud owner of one tooth and two more on the way. She gives the best kisses and is so proud of herself for doing so. She is eleven months old. Eleven. Happy eleven months, sweet Wren Margaret, happy eleven months.
big Xs and Os,