Seventeen: The Lola edition

This little chickadee is seventeen months old.

When we hit that one-year mark, there was a part of me that held on to the hope that time would somehow slow down a bit.  That I could keep my baby, well, a baby for just a little longer.

But alas, my baby is most certainly not a baby anymore.

She's obsessed with brushing her teeth.  Anytime she sees the bathroom door open, she zooms inside and opens the top drawer, looking for one thing and one thing alone: her brush brush.

I don't think this fixation has anything to do with a desire to maintain proper dental hygiene.
Nope, I'm pretty sure she just likes the taste of her toothpaste.
Actually, I'm sure of it, since she treats the thing more like a lollipop than a brush.
And forget about anything resembling a brushing movement.

The chick loves certain toys, and no matter where I hide them, she always seeks them out.
Unfortunately, only one or two of these favorite things actually qualifies as a toy.
She currently prefers pens, her toothbrush, my keys (beep beeps), Reece's phone and books she can tear apart.

The monkey has attitude.
She has mastered the fake cry, the fake whimper and the fake whine.
Drives. Me. Crazy.
But also provides us with a good laugh now and then, particularly when Reece is home to help me with damage control.

She is still extremely opinionated and thinks she's much older than she really is.
She talks nonstop, which is adorable and exhausting all at the same time.

Sippy cups are unacceptable.
She will only drink out of cups that allow her to dump water, milk or juice all over herself, her car seat or the floor.
But she does love my IMC mug.
I can only pull it out when she is napping.
I'm glad to know someone else covets the thing as much as I do.

Oh little girl.
Please stop getting so big.