When I was enrolled in a fiction writing class and had an upcoming assignment due, I started writing a story about a baby who decided to never crawl, walk or talk because said baby enjoyed having every need taken care of by parents. I got a page into the story and it just wasn't working. Something wasn't right. Now I think I get why.
Ivy wants to be grown up. She tries to hold her own bottle. She tries to roll over (and succeeds every once in a while). She tries to sit. She tries to grab my Diet Coke. She laughs constantly, sometimes for real, sometimes fake. She babbles all day. She puts everything in her mouth, including her own feet.
Ivy is in the 91st percentile for height, and the 11th percentile for weight. She's teething and has the drool to prove it. She likes almost everything except church and new people.
Ivy seems to genuinely enjoy getting older. She loves that she can pick up toys and put her binky in her mouth and giggle at her silly parents. I think she can't wait to crawl, walk and talk, hold her own bottle, sit up, and knock a Diet Coke out of my hands.
Though she can't wait to grow up, Stephen and I are trying to savor every day as we get better acquainted with this sweet, hilarious, beautiful daughter of ours. It never stops getting better.