11 Month Old climbed the bunk bed ladder last night.
Obviously, swiping his feet out from under him so he can’t learn to walk has not been enough.
He also drank a glass of whole milk. From a cow, not his Mother Dearest. You see, he decided to wean himself (ouch). He went from 6-8 nursings a day to once, maybe twice, a day, all within the span of 6 hours. Oh, he plays a lot. But latching on? He’s much too grown up for that. Since he’s Last Child, I thought I’d nurse him for, say, forever. But apparently he also has developed an opinion about things I did not give him permission to have an opinion about.
Last night when I took away the pair of scissors he was jabbing at his eye, he dropped his body onto the floor, kicked his feet and screamed. 11 months old.
I think I can look at this in one of two ways. I can live in fear and trembling for what this means for our family when he reaches the strapping age of 3. Or, I can smile, take it as a sign of his destiny (world domination) and cancel that needless 401K.