August, already?

You know, when I started this whole baby blog thing, I figured it'd be easy to maintain. Well, it is simple, but simple doesn't mean easy. So, today I post for the first time in a month and a half. Presleigh continues to amaze me as she grows closer and closer to two years old...

She does seem to have a gift for cleaning. Picking her up from MMO, the teachers would be cleaning up and there's Presleigh with a Clorox wipe, mopping up behind them. Perhaps she'll grow up to be a quality control manager? Mommy isn't allowed to clean anything up unless Presleigh gets to use the broom. And, just the other day, I spotted her lining up these sponges on the kitchen floor... What a big girl!

Today, she counted from 6 to 10 with no help from Mommy or Papa. One through five are a little rusty as she prefers 5 to come before four. Even cuter, she had a visitor yesterday and as we continue to fight the battle over "share your toys", after company had left she actually used "toys" and "share" in the same sentence. Actually, that was the whole sentence. I think to our chagrin, she might have meant that the toys shared children instead of the children shared the toys...

We're quickly... alright, I am painstakingly slowly learning what foods are Presleigh-friendly and which ones she absolutely, positively must eat with supervision. Carrots? Okay. Apples? Okay. Ice cream or yogurt? Uhmmmm... notsomuch. The Presleighish word for "lotion" is "shushin", which does not derive directly from the French word for "yogurt", but in Presleighish it's the same root word. She likes lotion. Lotion on her hands. Lotion on her face, hair, shirt, and of course, all over the high-chair tray.

"Splash, splash", says the lotion. "Drip, drip", says the floor. "PapaaaaAAAH!" shouts the Mommy. "Ouch, ouch", says the door...

Yeah, let's not have a repeat of that episode.

You'd think I'd have learned. Of course, Mommy hears the tinkle-tink of the ice-cream truck bells coming down the cul-de-sac, which means Papa has to race downstairs out of the office, run across the hot (good GAWWWWD, hot!) driveway where he stands charring his feet in the molten lava temperatures of our road's black asphalt, waiting for the ice-cream man to huck a few nice, melty, sweet treats at him as he stands tap dancing on the lawn. All that effort and Presleigh makes shushin out of the ice-cream treat, too. SpongeBob on the hands and arms. SpongeBob on the shirt and hair.

Thank God for the bath tub, the hose, and the fact that Mommy was not in the kitchen this time around.

Ah, Presleigh. We love you.

Papa