I took Pooplette in for her 12-month check-up yesterday. Aside from the obvious, that she’s very tall and wiggles A LOT, the doctor didn’t have much to add. I got the usual, ‘Just keep doing whatever it is you’re doing.’ It’s nice to get compliments from someone. As far as numbers go, she’s 79 centimeters tall (a whopping 4.5 centimeters taller than her brother when he was a year old) and weighs 11 kilos—none of which is baby fat. She did us the honor of actually walking the entire length of the doctor’s office. At home she’s often either too busy or wants to go too fast to let go and walk by herself. I know I’ve been saying for months that she’ll be walking any day now, and we all honestly have thought that for months, but apparently she just decided showing off for the doctor would be a good time to actually start. Life changes again.

Holy shit.

I also dragged Muppet along for the ride, as his itchy-flea-y-ness isn’t going away, and try as I might I cannot find any fleas. This isn’t particularly bad news, given how much I hate to clean on a good day, and the prospect of bleaching the enitre house from top to bottom to get rid of the little biting bastards just doesn't feel like something I need to be doing. That, for the moment at least, has been put on hold. The good doctoresse has no idea what’s going on with him either, so we’ve got to take him in to see the vampires tomorrow and do a round of blood tests. In the mean time he continues to welt up daily, and neither Marc nor I are always fast enough to keep him from scratching. His back looks like he’s been beaten with a whip. I can assure he hasn’t—although the idea has crossed our minds.

And finally pictures, because I haven’t done any for a while:
I haven't had enough odd people visit lately, and this, I am sure, will attract the very best of them. Yep, here's the boy taking a leak. Those of you who have passed this stage will understand just why this is a milstone. And those of you who have yet to reach this point can at least appreciate how much fun I'm going to have when he brings that first date home.

Here she is, attacking her birthday cake. She's so classy, this child, that she didn't really dirty herself with crumbs the way normal babies do. This is probably some early sign of OCD, but for now I'll just appreciate the fact that she's not a pig.

And finally, the inspiration behind today's title:DO YOU SEE? All those hours, and yes it was HOURS, I spent arguing with her father about getting a certified side-protection car seat because safety for my babies has no price tag attached and she, the little stinker, goes and falls asleep with her head sticking out in the great big wide open. SHE HATES ME. Or at least she and her pops have this conspiracy going... (oh and um, just lemme say, I did not choose her lovely pink polka dot jacket, mmm-kay.)