There are squeaker toys in our house that Mabel isn't allowed to play with. She does not understand. Not only does she not comprehend that there's a giant basket full of brightly colored objects that she can't destroy, she also doesn't comprehend the whole concept of the nursery.
I find her in there, standing on her hind legs, eyeing said toys on the bookshelves, whimpering pathetically. She gazes up at me with big, sad eyes and says, "What is this room? Why can't I have these? You do realize that once they're scattered on the floor everything is fair game, right?"
Yeah. I foresee big bumps ahead.
And when I'm not washing load after load of baby clothes in the most expensive laundry detergent known to man (anyone else think this is a scheme to prey on inexperienced moms?), I'm writing thank you notes. And feeling so very thankful for the closet full of diapers, clothes, crib sheets, medicine, baby lotion and burp cloths. Matt walked into the house yesterday, sniffed the air and said, "It smells like a baby in here." Looks like we've officially entered kiddytown.