Joy is 18 months old today. She likes to stand unsupported for 15 seconds or so, maybe make one tentative step, and then she falls back on her diapered bottom. She’s all smiles and chuckles. See what I can do, Daddy? she seems to be saying.
We have a full size mattress on our bedroom floor for co-sleeping. She gets on and off the mattress dozens of times every day. She loves lying on (and jumping on) her soft mattress. If she falls over the edge and misses one of the many pillows on the sides, she still lands on soft carpeting—a fall of just 8 inches. And she does fall. She rolled off the mattress yesterday and tapped her head on the chest of drawers. She wailed. We picked her up and kissed away the hurt.
Joy can reach items on the tops of standard tables. Over the past thirty days she has broken a dozen dishes that she has assumed were Frisbees or toys. Although it’s disappointing to see our Ikea 18-piece dinnerware set become a 9-piece set, it’s impossible to be frustrated with Joy. We pick her up, move her to another room, clean up the broken shards, vacuum-vacuum-vacuum, and mop twice. The kitchen floor has never been cleaner.
And although she can have tantrums and fake crying jags, is an expert at whining for extra ice cream (or Cheerios or apples or crackers), and likes to throw my iPhone down the stairs, I’ve never been angry with Joy for one second. Because for every tantrum she has, she gives a dozen hugs, a hundred kisses, a thousand smiles, and (so far) 548 days of love, joy, and laughter.