Strapped

 I was looking through pictures today. I noticed that I have several really cute ones of Lily.  Strapped in her high chair. Proof, I suppose, that she spends quite a bit of time strapped in her high chair. 

It's so much easier when she is stuck in one place.  When she can't get into things.  Or climb up on things.  Or pull things out of cupboards.  Or drawers.  Or the garbage.  If she isn't sleeping (and lately she has decided that she no longer needs to nap) or buckled in her chair, then she's wreaking havoc.  And the havoc makes me so tired! 

Lily has some kind of radar or sixth sense for when something has been left un-baby-proofed.  We leave the door for the main floor bathroom closed so that Lily can't get in there and splash in the toilet or empty out all of the drawers.  But if one of the "big kids" leaves it open, Lily is immediately in there, pulling out all of the towels, unrolling the toilet paper or drawing on the floor (my new floor!) with a long-forgotten lipstick she somehow found in the back of the "hair things" drawer.  I spend most of my day unlatching and then re-latching the cupboard with our kitchen garbage.  I never realized how many times a day I throw something in recycle or the garbage until I had to lock it to keep tiny little hands from digging through the banana peels and coffee grounds.  But every once in a while I don't re-latch it after throwing something away.  I get so tired of doing it over and over again.  And again.  And I'm standing right there.  It can't hurt to leave it for just a second, I think.  But it can.  It does.  She's there.  She's always right there! 

And it's not just messes.  It's the climbing.  And the doing of things.  Today, just now, as a matter of fact, she climbed up on a little chair, opened the cabinet in the family room, pulled out the bin of crayons and markers, grabbed her chubby crayolas and a piece of paper, climbed down and carried it all over to the kitchen floor.  Impressive?  Sure.  But yesterday she climbed up on that same little chair and opened up the guinea pig cage.  Maybe I just need to get rid of that chair. 

Lily is 18 months old, but she is under the impression that she is twelve.  She is adamant that she feed herself.  And if I cut up her meal and she sees that Sophie and Max's food is all in one piece, she will throw the plate on the floor in a fit of rage.  If I take her sippy cup off the counter and hand it to her, she will throw it on the floor and scream until I put it back on the counter, pick her up, and let her get it herself.  There is a lot of throwing.  And screaming. 
 
Don't get me wrong.  I am head-over-heels in love with this little girl.  How could I not love that sweet face?  I try not to wish away this time.  This phase in her new life.  It's so easy to get wrapped up in the frustration, both hers and mine, when she desperately wants something, but can't verbalize what it is.  It's easy to stomp out her excitement over the rainbow of markers she stole from Sophie's desk drawer because I can foresee that same rainbow of color on the wall.  And it's certainly easy to lose my patience on the fourth day in a row that she has refused to take a nap.  But every once in a while I'm able to take a step back and look at her adorable face, her sockless feet, her shortness and say a little prayer that God will freeze time and keep her exactly the way she is.  Plus, next up is the terrible twos.