Little Monkey

We have a climber on our hands.

Anything she can stand up and grab onto -- or lean forward into, down-dog yoga style -- she will, and everything from the bed to the fireplace and the TV stand and the kitchen chairs and drawers that she's opened in the bathroom and bedroom are makeshift monkey bars-in-the-making.

And thus it is nothing short of a miracle that she's only gotten one minor knee-scrape out of the deal (one of many to come, I'm sure -- she looks so grown-up and toddler-like with a scrape on her chubby knee, and has already given me the "mom, not again" look when I'm applying yet another layer of ointment).

Also, we returned from an extended visit to the Midwest earlier this week, which has left us schedule-less (not that we had much of a schedule to begin with, mind you, but it was positively organized compared to the waking up ten times a night average we've had since returning home) and Anika crawling around aimlessly across our living room, wondering where the heck her cool cousin is and what happened to all of those noise-making toys.