Ivy is INTENSE. Her shrieks are eardrum-bursting. Her appetite is voracious. Her laughter loud and long. Her kisses are big and sloppy. When she starts to cry, she escalates quickly, like she wants us to know in no uncertain terms that something is terribly wrong RIGHT NOW! When she locates the object of her desire, Ivy charges, full speed ahead.
When I wouldn't let her unplug computers at the library today, Ivy took all the board books off their little rotating shelf and thrust them into my hands one at a time. She has figured out how to open the screen door and let herself into the back yard. At dinner she pointedly dropped her garbanzo beans and peas on the floor, and demanded more tomato, pointing: "May! May!"
She can climb to the top of the tallest climbing structures at our favorite parks. On Saturday, she braved the highest slide at the playground and then went back at least 15 more times to do it again. I've never seen her more ecstatic, squealing, grinning from ear to ear, her hair a fuzzy sea urchin of static electricity. Charging up the playground structure, sliding down the tallest slide—sometimes head first—over and over and over again. By the time we had to leave, she was out of breath.
"She's a handful," people (and I) have been saying since she was born, and it holds true. Ivy might be several handfuls. It's exhausting, but also delightful beyond words.