I nipped out into the garden this morning to peg out a load of washing. I knew 15-month-old Rizzy was coming with me, and obliged when she brought me her shoes. For the past few weeks she's roamed around barefoot, but she wouldn't be dissuaded from her (very expensive but fitted so you've got to have them for your precious darling) new Start-Rite shiny shoes, so I buckled them up for her and out we went.
For once we've been enjoying a warm and sunny summer in Coventry, so our only level bit of lawn has perished under our 10 foot diameter paddling pool. It's meant that at any time I've had to know where Biscuit and Rizzy are, and that if they're in the garden, someone very responsible has had to keep their eyes on them. It also became apparent that the pool was too big for Biscuit and Rizzy, so I hastily found a plastic box for them. Over the summer a smaller, boat-shaped pool made an appearance, but Rizzy certainly prefers the box. In fact she loves it.
I was not an adventurous child, preferring my excitement to come via the medium of books, and I really didn't like being outdoors. Picnics were my idea of torture. This child couldn't be more different. Her preferred state of being is outside, the wetter and muddier the better. She seemingly has no fear, whilst simultaneously assessing the situation to work out how she can accomplish her goals in the most efficient way possible. And she's quick, so quick. I can't leave her out there with that water for a second, and even if I know exactly where she is and I have a pretty good idea as to the course of action she's planning, it's like I'm powerless to stop her.
I hope and pray that her adventurous spirit isn't quashed, and that I'll have the grace to accept the accompanying extra white hairs on my head.