Wrestling Matches

Ahh, how I remember the halcyon days of easy feedings and diaper changes. Was it only three months ago that she would lie still for both, obediently allowing herself to be manipulated in any position that was easiest for us to administer her needs?

No more.

Now each diaper change has become a wrestling match. She rolls, she twists, she kicks, she holds her legs out straight and stiff, grinning and smirking at us the whole time. She hasn't yet started to giggle or laugh, but when it comes, I know it will be maniacal.

And feeding. Good lord. She takes down the first couple of ounces, just to sate her hunger, and then it becomes Play Time. She's learned to fling her arms and grab at things, but her favorite little ploy is to streeeetch, then lunge backwards, and when you're quickly compensating to keep her from tumbling backwards, SWAT goes a plump little arm, and awaaaaaaay goes the bottle. Again, cue the future maniacal cackling.

And lately? She chews. Chew chew chew on the nipple. Thank God I don't breastfeed, is all I can say. Because this child has some jaw power, bless her heart. I know because I encourage her to chew on my fingers when she's doing her pull-ups. Hmm, this could be my fault.

I suppose this could be frustrating, but in all honesty, it tickles me pink. I certainly don't want to become one of those mothers who lets her children run pell-mell around restaurants, and when rebuked, says only, "They must revel in their independence! Do not repress my children!"

But, on the other hand, I do want her to be independent, her own person. Yes, yes, I admit to having felt pangs of maternal envy whenever I've seen young children clinging to their mamas, but really? No. I don't want that. I want a fearless child. One who will run excitedly for the merry-go-round, and squeal with delight on the fast rides.

Yeah, the best laid plans. In the meantime, she's developing her own little sense of self, and I couldn't be more proud.