I Really Like My Daughter

I don't normally write about the small people who live in my house, but my mom tells me that people like it. "People" being "my mom."

When my son was about 15-months-old, I started taking him to Gymboree classes and it was a huge eye opener. I had only known him, really, inside the context of interacting with me and his dad and the rest of our families. We had the occasional play date and whatnot, but seeing him operate within a classroom-esque setting was interesting to watch. Mostly because I was able to compare him to the other kids in the class and get smug when his brilliance and athleticism were illuminated. He's my special boy.

Now that Baby Cookies is of a similar age, I've started taking her to classes. And what I've learned is that she is one savvy chiqua. She's one of the youngest in the class and she doesn't say much (because her brother does most of her talking for her), but she does not miss a trick, this one. She climbs on all of the apparatuses like a boss and she participates in all of the activities with an amused sense of being above it all.

At the end of our first class, as always, the teacher asked the kids, "Where's Gymbo?" Gymbo the Clown hides in one of the cabinets during class and it's a big deal for the kids to look for him. This is what counts for amusement when you're under two. But Cookies glanced at her peers running after the teacher peering into Gymbo-less cupboards and she sauntered off in the other direction. She stopped at the partition that separates the kids from lobby and pointed up at the toys for sale, a bored look on her face, as if to say, "I don't know what you all are doing, but there are like ten thousand Gymbos right there."

Baby Lady, you are a snarky delight.

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