At some point recently, my daughter became a toddler. She can run, open cabinet doors, unspool rolls of toilet paper and bring terror to our cats in her excitement to play with them.
Elora loves going outside now, and we run around sporadically in the backyard. I tried to teach her to play tag, but she doesn’t grasp that concept and remains “it” constantly. The grass is less scary for her than it was several months ago, but when she falls, she still likes for me to pick her up rather than pushing herself up off the ground.
One of Elora’s favorite outdoor items is her tricycle. She’s not big enough to make the pedals turn, but she doesn’t care. The tricycle has a detachable pole in the back that I can use for pushing and steering (though sometimes I have to compensate for Elora jerking the natural handlebars). Together, we go up and down the sidewalks, and she waves to everyone she sees like she’s a parade princess.
It’s hard to see my baby turning into a little girl, but we have so much fun together. It warms my heart when I come home to see her because she runs up to me and shouts, “Matt!” (Once she found out my name, “Dad” slid by the wayside, and I haven’t been able to change my identification back yet.) My toddler is a blast.
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