My middle child is my wild child. She's the one I come running for when I hear silence. Because she's up to something. It's inevitable. Last week, she and her sister were in their room dissolving into giggles. My first thought, "I love when my girls get along! That's excellent!"
My second thought crashed into the first, "What the heck are they up to?"
I walked into the room to see Caly, naked except for a diaper, about to jump off of her sister's bed.
"Ready Mommy? Onnnnne... twooooo... threeeee!" And she jumped. And cackled the whole time. And then? She did it again.
I'm afraid to take the kids to any pool by myself because Caly will be the one that walks off of the edge without fear, whether I'm there to catch her or not. Can't swim? Who cares! (I do!)
She spends her days begging me or Shaun to toss her in the air or flip her over, which we do. And for a time, her penchant for danger is satisfied.
At this rate, I'll probably make good friends at the ER when she and her brother are old enough to get into things together.
She's a kid of extremes. When she's happy, she's delighted. When she's upset, I think our neighbors probably hear about it. Her temper tantrums are legendary. (And frequent).
As quick as she is to get angry, she's quicker to melt into a hug. Being two is hard. Being two when your mom won't let you climb on the top of the refrigerator is harder.