She is her own person, my daredevil daughter; climbing up the dining room chairs to stomp on the table. Other milestones include:
- Opening the bottom storage compartment on the oven to play with the pots and lids.
- Getting into the bread crumbs and spilling them on the concrete floor where she proceeded to make snow angels.
- Climbed out of the restraint system of her high chair, then climbed the rest of the way down while I was doing the dishes. I admit, I stopped to watch her do it, only intervening at the last minute to prevent her plummeting to the concrete floor.
- Has completely rearranged my tupperware drawers. I found a rubber penguin bathtub toy in amongst the lids this morning.
- Once again got into the croutons and fed them to the cat.
- Walked to the refrigerator, opened the door, took a sip from her bottle, put it back, closed the door and walked away.
The weasel's getting clever. We're doomed.
Today has been a strange, quiet day. I am tired and feeling anti-social. Not that I don't want company, but walking out amongst the people is a feat too daunting for me.
Mojo also woke on the wrong side of the world this morning. He was visited by strange dreams. He said I tried to push him in front of a car. I'm not even going to hazard an analysis.
My forehead aches. I have a piece of brain stuck there. And it hurts.
Ari came over for dinner last night and we looked through her photo albums. Memories of a shared past, people we both knew, others who I didn't but were central to her life, we all had such a wonderful upbringing at the Faire. And then, in amongst the myriad of faces, Robin's would appear; here as a teenager, there as a man. And we would be quiet for a moment in grief.
My daughter kept turning back to one page in Ari's book, with a particularly striking photo of him. Over and over she would turn back and there he would be.
Sigh. No point to this post, other than grief. Also joy. A strange dichotomy.