Eighteen Months

It's official! Cambrie is eighteen months old! My baby girl is no longer a baby; she says real words, she (finally) agrees to smile when we ask, and she throws temper tantrums. Yes, I think I'm on the verge of raising a toddler.

(Here is her on-demand smile)

Two days ago was her first official full day in nursery. The way our church meetings are set up, everyone meets together for the main meeting, then we have a variety of different Sunday School classes. Nursery is the "class" for children between eighteen months and three years old.

I use quotation marks, because I've never had a class that included play time, snack time, and an entire wardrobe full of toys. Lucky, lucky girl.

Apparently, she was a little confused when they did "Ring around the rosie." We’ve been practicing so that next week in nursery, she’s going to be a pro “Ring around the rosie”-er.

The thing that gets me most of all is that she's so big. She's so independent. I mean, this is the girl that, in a freezing basement, when I've put her last, clean pair of warm socks on her feet, slips them off and insists that I place them on her hands. Why? I have no idea. Ask the girl with cold toes pawing at books with sock-hands.

I figure now is as good a time as any to remember how tiny my baby girl used to be. She couldn't talk, couldn't crawl, and couldn't blow kisses. Her world was made up of warm milk, soft cuddles, and watching the world with a quiet intensity.

And now she can say “cheese” and climb on the piano bench all by herself. Slow down, baby girl. I want to keep you right here, in my arms, just a little longer…