There’s never a dull moment here in my little corner of the universe.
I’m getting used to it, the things that go missing on the daily. Toothbrushes, hair brushes, things that are orange, and lids of every size and color currently top the list.
Quentin, my youngest housemate, is an always on the move thirteen-month-old dynamo. He’s surprisingly strong, exceptionally observant and absolutely relentless, a cross between baby Hercules and a toddler CEO-in-training. He truly thinks that he is the boss.
He started walking at 9 1/2 months—and can dart around in the blink of an eye. We have learned to be ever-vigilant, everywhere. I by default became the primary disciplinarian, saying “no” so frequently that “Marcy No-hara” would have been a more fitting moniker.
I’ve learned, however, that saying “no” does absolutely no good. In fact, it seems to spur him on. (I may have met my match.)
