Love and actually

I spent last week with H, A, and sweet B. It’s been cold in New Hampshire lately (what a surprise!), but I got out for one nice, if frigid, walk with daughter, granddaughter, and Jasper the Wonderdog.

B has, for some reason—possibly clunky boots—stopped wanting to walk on these outings, and now insists on being carried, either on mama’s back in the Ergo, or in arms. I, of course, mind terribly when I have to carry her, with all the hugging and kissing that entails.

She seems to have a quick ear, and experiencing her verbal development is a special delight. One evening, A headed downstairs to dig out a bottle for dinner. B asked me, “Where Dada go?”—a perfectly respectable two-year-old query. I took her over near the open door and pointed, “He went into the cellar to get some wine.” Pause. Wheels turning. Then a correction. “He go into basement, actually.”

Of course, most of all she likes to be turned upside down and swung between your legs.

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