Ivy will be 17 months old tomorrow, and I just realized I never wrote about her at 16 months (or 15 months...or maybe any month after she turned one because I guess even now, talking about a child's age in months still sounds so odd to me).
Sixteen months gets a special mention. It has been the most magical, difficult, adorable, impossible month yet. Eighteen month olds are "supposed" to be this kind of handful, so maybe Ivy is just a little ahead of herself. Or maybe, since she's been intense all along, her intensity just had a growth spurt.
Ivy throws temper tantrums like I've never experienced. A few months ago, she would express her disappointment by slooowly lying down on the floor on her back—she was so very careful not to bonk her head while pitching a fit. Now, thrashes and writhes so forcefully I worry she'll hurt herself. She throws her head back and arches her back and SCREAMS. This is how she confronts all kinds of disappointments. Getting her diaper changed. Being put into her car seat. Not being allowed to grab something hot and/or sharp off the kitchen counter. Having to wear a shirt.
But she's also the sweetest ray of sunshine. The sweetest. She says a million adorable things (which I will list out when I'm not so tired from having tortured her all day with car seats and clothing and fire safety), and gives hugs that rival even Rob's big bear hugs. And if I ask, "Can I have a kiss?" she comes at me with a big, open-mouthed smile.
These past four weeks have given me some of my worst moments with Ivy. On more than one occasion, I've looked at her and wondered, Who ARE you? But as tired and crazy as I feel watching her (and trying to assist her with whatever her oh-so-intense journey is), I continue to fall in love with her every day.
Ivy makes everything more challenging. But something about her also makes me feel like I'm up for the challenge.