I passed the following note to my classmate last night: Dear Nemat, I'm sorry you have to sit next to me tonight. I haven't showered today.
I punctuated it with a frown face. He took his pen and turned it into a smiling face.
We assessed Baby Girl's hesitation to walk as part psychological and part efficiency. She does not want to let go of our finger when doing her walk (which, by the way, is very stiff and slow and she looks like she is a character on stilts in a parade). She obviously wants and deeply needs to get to that tube of Nystatin ointment faster than the speed of light in order to shove it down her throat, and crawling totally beats walking with a stick, yo.
So we tried on some heavy Big Girl shoes in the hopes that she'd be striding right.
This is how thrilled she was with the big kicks:
The first few times we put them on her, her face warped into the angry mushroom head, ahh those srunched up eyes, that quivering lower lip, the anguish of those round, red little cheeks. She looked at us as if to say, Why must you wrestle my innocence right out of my little chubby digits? Why must you replace it with the cruel reality of girlhood? I said I WASN'T READY.
But the next day she accepted her fate as a member of the hard-soled shoe rocking club...