As of this weekend -- Saturday, to be precise -- Elsa and Clio are 18 months old. Or one-and-a-half, as Alastair prefers to say. He thinks they're old enough to be referred to in years now, but I want to hang onto their babydom just a little while longer, so I shall keep referring to them in months. But only until they're thirteen.
The last few months have been, admittedly, rather challenging at times. I think it peaked at sixteen months, around the time I wrote this post, whining about the physical exhaustion of running around after two very active, very needy toddlers. But I feel like in the past couple of weeks, things have turned a corner. Maybe it's because the girls have gotten a bit more physically confident and independent -- they don't fall flat on their faces quite as often, or get as upset when they do. Or maybe it's because their language skills are suddenly blossoming, so it's a little easier to understand what they want -- not to mention a helluva lot of fun teaching them new words. Or maybe it's just because we've adjusted. Just as the line of babyproofing in our house grows higher and higher (They can almost reach the kitchen counter now! Damn!) our patience and endurance climb to keep pace with their level of energy and interactivity.
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