For about the last week, Caroline has been wired. I’m talking about the kind of hyped-up, frenetic energy that would make a Tasmanian devil say, “Wow. You’re kind of a spaz.”
She’s always been a high energy kid, but I’m talking about levels of activity that defy any relation to my gene pool. I tend to think of napping as a neglected art form.
Maybe it’s the cooler weather or maybe it’s because the Christmas Toy Syndicate has ramped up their campaign to make sure your child’s Christmas isn’t complete without a Barbie Jammin’ Jeep, but we have reached new heights of enthusiasm for life.
In fact, last night as I attempted to wrestle her into her pajamas, she suddenly exclaimed, “WAIT! I NEED TO GET SOME KICKS OUT!”
And then proceeded to move to the middle of the living room floor where she kicked the air with great gusto for the better part of four minutes until P told her she needed to take it down a notch.
It’s like living with a five-year-old version of Salley O’Malley. She can kick. She can stretch. She can kick.
But in spite of the fact that all the activity is about to kill me, I still have moments when I look at her and can’t believe she’s mine.
I had no idea I could love someone this much.