We Don't Need No Stinkin' Milestones
One week ago, Thalia was a baby. A little creature whose only purpose in life was to make people smile, make them laugh, maybe wave on cue.
In one week, things have changed. And changed drastically.
The turning point was dinner last week at a trendy Santa Monica establishment called Sushi Roku, which is Japanese for place where many surgically enhanced blondes eat overpriced spicy tuna rolls. Our little we-can-take-her-anywhere daughter, our what-a-good-flyer-she-is-you -hardly-notice-her-on-the-plane girl, our I-know-you-wish-yours-was-as-perfect-but-can't-win-'em-all offspring learned to shriek.
Hello, attractive table of LA actors with very white teeth, do you like the sound of my daughter's shriek during your seared ahi appetizer? Because if you missed it, she'd be delighted to repeat it, only exponentially louder.
Ah, there it is. Enjoy your sake. Try the enoki tempura, it's fabulous.
One week ago, Thalia was a girl to be looked at. Now she's a girl to be watched. She goes into drawers and takes whatever was in the drawer out of the drawer. She takes whatever was in the diaper bag out of the diaper bag. She takes whatever was in the trashcan out of the trashcan. And then bangs on the trashcan. And then, when we're not looking, probably puts the entire thing into her mouth.
And while one would generally be thrilled to walk into a hotel room with a real live Jacuzzi tub up three tiled steps right next to the bed, a couple with an 11 month-old who's just learned to climb steps is only slightly less thrilled.
Thank you, twenty (20) in-laws. Thank you for being here this week and helping me tame the toddler that has inhabited the shell of my infant daughter.
Or wait, maybe it's just temporary? Tell me it's just temporary. Judging from the number of churches down in North Carolina, I'm sure I could find an exorcist.