There's no denying it now, Ellie Girl. You are more of a toddler than you are a baby. You can totter your way across the room without falling or needing support. You are beginning to understand language, whispering a raspy "hiiyyyy" when you see yourself in a mirror, repeating a decisive "puh" after me when I ask you to say please instead of fussing to get what you want.
Lately, you've taken an interest in reading books, handing them to me one after the other, sometimes the same one again and again, listening attentively while you stand next to me. Sometimes, you even stop moving long enough to actually snuggle into my lap, your warm little body relaxing into me.
Mostly though, you move. You walk. You push chairs around on the hardwood floors. You bang and shake things. You love anything that makes noise. You fall often, but you rarely cry. When your little friends hit or push you, you don't even notice. To be fair, you do your own share of hair grabbing and toy stealing. You're a tough little girl, just like your Daddy's been saying since day one of your life when you wouldn't let the pediatric resident shine her light in your eyes.
And oh Ellie Girl, we love you so much. Don't get me wrong. We miss our uninterrupted sleep. We miss our long, quiet, productive Saturdays. We miss being able to sit through sermons on Sunday and making plans without having to get a babysitter. But the gift of you is a greater and richer joy than any of these things. You delight us.