It’s the one and only Smush!  (BTW, the past couple weeks have sucked.  Worm is still bringing home germs from daycare…this time, I think it’s a stomach bug he gave me.  That or it was last week’s leftover chicken and rice I’ve been eating…God, I hope I don’t poop myself.)

Smushie is showing a strong personality these days.  I thought that she would model herself after her handsome and debonair father (It’s my blog.  I can write anything I want.) since she sees me every day as a larger than life superhero with a dangerous trio of wit, charm, and looks.  But, unfortunately that’s not the case.  She doesn’t even mimic much of her older brother whom she adores.  She’s got her own thing going.

I didn’t quite understand this colloquialism until recently.  But, it’s clear to me now.  My daughter is a pistol.  (I’m at least certain her head is made of metal.)  Let’s break this down.

I don’t have a hard head.  (Although my wife would beg to differ.)  My crown is a modern, thin-walled type that allows for expansion in the odd case I glean something useful from my time here on Earth.  The Smushter’s head is more Neanderthal in nature.  Read dense.  It’s a furry cannonball.  I’ve witnessed Smushie use her noggin to “examine” the antique bookshelf, the coffee table, her baby step stool and the kitchen floor.  Did she succeed?  No.  Did she cry?  Merely a whimper.  Did any of the contact leave a mark?  Nope, not even the corner of the bookshelf!  I thought to cut her myself to verify that she’s human, but I don’t really want to know.  (The mystery is somewhat exciting to me…and I need all the excitement I can get at this stage of my life.)

Smush, just like a gun, is fun and games until her energy gets directed towards something.  The trigger is pulled when something across the room is something she wants to obliterate inspect.  And once it is pulled, she’s unstoppable until she hits her desired target.  She will rip through anything to get at it.  (I’ve stood in her way and almost got my eyes gouged out.  More than once.)  We affectionately call her “Baby Bulldozer” when she’s in the zone and destroying everything in her path from point A to B.

Lastly, there’s a boldness and a brashness to the Smush.  (Pistols ooze boldness and make anyone holding them feel the same way, right?)  She’s got a fearless attitude and isn’t shy about showing us.  She dives off the couch and laughs about it…all while we’re thanking Tebow that we grabbed her in time from yet another neckbreaking dive into the carpet.  (It’s Berber, so it’s not really a crash pad, if you know what I mean.)  Even when we’re paying attention, she boldly smacks her mommy and I in the face during our ‘discussions’.  (We’re slowly getting used to her communication style.  It’s unorthodox, but I’m sure it works well in some management situations.)  Sure, she mercilessly pulls our hair to guide us left or right.  She’s not afraid to yank our hair out when we don’t do what she asks.  I’ve tried reasoning with her that sometimes crying just sounds like crying.  She disagrees.

All in all, we’re amazed at how far our littlest Smushie has come.  There are major differences between she and her brother even in these first 8 months.   I’m in awe that two kids raised in the same environment with similar DNA don’t do a damn thing I say  could be so different from one another and so unruly special.

Smushie, you’re a pistol (and more than occasionally, I think a loose cannon could better define you), and I love you for that!  You’re brave, confident, and dauntless.  Your zest for life is apparent and your unbridled joy is contagious.  At times, you can frustrate the hell out of me but you keep our days interesting (and some nights, as well).  When you put your head mind into something, you do so with every ounce of yourself.  If there’s anything that your fearlessness will show, it’s that you will break down walls in both love and life.  And that will take you very, very far.  We’re lucky to have you!  (There’s a reason why we call you “Double Happiness!”)

Sorry, Smushels. I Keep Forgetting That You're In Charge Now, Not Me!

Sorry, Smushels. I Keep Forgetting That You’re In Charge Now, Not Me!