Lucy, 14 months, is in true toddler mode. Her favorite game is yanking books off the shelves and making a large carpet of them on the floor. Her mother is not too fond of the follow-up game, “Pick Up Lucy’s Mess.” From the bookshelves, she goes over to her next favorite thing to do: Dumpster dive. Lucy is the perfect height for the kitchen garbage. A lid-less garbage, I might add. Enough said there, I think.

There used to be a lock on the pantry door. I sure do miss that lock. I’m not sure what the attraction is with the various bottles in there, but Lucy likes to hug a bottle of Balsamic vinegar to her chest like a baby doll. Last week I caught her with a piece of dog kibble in her mouth. Boy, did she cry when I pried that away from her. Maybe I should scattter a few cookies on the pantry floor so she has at least human food to choose from.

Lucy marches about the family room with a broken Nerf basketball hoop from the big boy’s room around her neck like it’s the latest bling-bling from a chic boutique. Then the baby babble starts complete with her waving her pudgey arm at us. The only thing missing is a hand on the hip. Whatever she’s saying, it must be important because she says it with such conviction.

My impish girl must think she’s in charge around here.

The playpen is a wonderful invention.

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