So, Where Are the Wild Things?

After Ruby finished her bath, she toddled toward me with her binky, blanket and the book I've read to her 3 nights in a row, "Where the Wild Things Are".  I'm surprised she hasn't gotten sick of it yet.  She loves it, and well, I'm a bit taken aback by the irony.  In the past few weeks, before her second birthday, she has become the quintessential Wild Thing.  

She's the wiggling behind my bedroom curtain where she scrambles when she hears my footsteps approaching the mess of superfine nail glitter and mani/pedi stickers... adorning an area on my bedroom floor not unlike the shape of South America.

She's the reminder that head wounds bleed like a screaming, bloody banshee.  (Here's hoping she doesn't launch herself toward our brick fireplace again)

 When I open a tube of flavored liquid lipgloss (with it's just-right amount of shimmer and pinkness)...only to find the tinted sparkle has been replaced with a thick, slimy, no longer tinted substance, I know she's sucked the life out of it like the brazen lipgloss vampire she is.

She's the maniacal laughing coming from the bathtub where she's discovered she can make her own noisy bubbles.

And Yet...

She's the little arms that hold me in a death grip when thunder and lightening rattle over head.

 

She's the growling, imitation lion voice saying, "I loooovvve you, Moooommmy!"

And even as I'm nursing the bump on my forehead from being clocked with Barbie furniture, she's the sincerely apologetic hug with the whisper, "I sorry, Momma."

So Where Are the Wild Things?

I've got one soundly asleep upstairs.