18 months is one of the ages that I really appreciated after Bub and knew to look forward to with Bubette. It’s one of the things you should put on your list of reasons to power through if you’re muddling through a particularly difficult pregnancy, or life with a sleepless infant.
At this age there’s just this explosion of language, and awareness, and cuteness. Bubette can walk, and walk really fast in an almost-run. She tries to jump, but never gets off the ground. She likes to twirl and dance. She loves singing and music and books, particularly those with flaps to lift, or something to touch. Speaking of books, she demands, “boo!” when she goes to bed, and I make a small pile of board books in her bed. When we were at my parents’ house recently, I was able to watch her on the video monitor at naptime, and she actually looks through the books before laying down and going to sleep. The bonus to this is that she wakes up with books in her bed, buying me some time in the morning before I hear her.
There’s a really sweet brother-sister relationship developing in the moments where she’s not hitting him or pulling his hair.
She’s very much the little sister, and she’ll cry and cry in the car if Bub has something that she wants. He either wails, “Mama, my sister is SO LOUD,” or tries to placate her with something else within his reach, and sometimes he just accepts defeat and gives her whatever it is that she wants. She plays the baby of the family role perfectly.
She’s our little collector and prefers to be carrying something, anything, around. Just like her mother, she leaves piles of things all over the house in places they don’t belong. She’s very easily entertained and is totally the baby who would be thrilled with a cardboard box for Christmas.
Eighteen months is also the age of increased confidence without the benefit of common sense. I’m back at the stage of climbing all over the play structures at the park to keep her from heaving herself down the slide head first. This is also, for Bubette, the age of the velociraptor shriek, which is a really special time to look forward to, and cherish. I imagine it to be the toddler version of slamming a door in your face to let you know her displeasure with whatever it is you’re doing that doesn’t meet her standards.
In a turn of events that surprises no one more than it surprises me, this is the age at which I don’t miss having a baby at all*. It’s really that great.
*I reserve the right to amend this statement the next time a friend or family member gets pregnant, someone on the internet posts a picture of a squishy newborn, or I find a dress that I must have, available only in an impossibly small 0-3 month size.