Every time I can't think the girls can't get any more adorable, they do. Starting when they were around seven or eight months old, I think I started saying, "this is it. This is the best age ever. They can't possibly get any cuter than this." And then, by golly, they did. They did even funnier more engaging things. They said even cuter stuff. There was, admittedly, a brief period between eighteen and twenty-four months, when I was just as likely to say "It can't possibly get any harder than this..." But the past few months, things have definitely been on the upswing again.
And seriously, two-and-a-half -- today, exactly! -- has got to be the cutest possible age. It's gotta all be downhill after here, right? The girls still have a bit of that baby pudge and innocence. They still have the un-self-consciously gleeful giggles of toddlers, and take pleasure in simple things -- running around in circles and falling down on the grass, putting stickers on themselves, digging in the dirt. They like to cuddle. But they're also curious and aware of what's going on around them (I'm constantly surprised by how much they remember and pick up on.) They "read" books by themselves. And they talk -- Lord, how they talk. They crack us up on an almost daily basis with the stuff that comes out of their mouths. (Me: Clio, what is your stuffed doggie named? Clio: Cpthtoth. Me: What? Cpthoth? Clio: Yeah, Gaby Gaby Cpthoth.)
A lot of what they say is based, of course, on the words and phrasing we use. (Cpthoth and other apparently Elfin/Celtic words aside.) For Elsa, lately, the key word is "maybe." As in the other morning when she and Clio were in our bedroom while I was getting dressed and were trying on various pairs of my shoes. Elsa, while shuffling around in a pair of my flats, tilted her head to the side in her best toddler-coquette fashion and said, "So, maybe I could wear your shoes, Mommy?" (If it turns out she's the same size shoe as me when she's a teenager, I am in serious trouble.)
Another phrase they're both fond of is "how about." This is deployed chiefly as a negotiating tactic, usually for food. This morning, for example, after eating two entire homemade Belgian waffles, Clio asked if she could have a cracker (?) and I said, no, we weren't having crackers for breakfast, but she could have a peach or a banana if she wanted. Her reply "How about some pretzels?"
Live blog moment -- as I am writing this, Alastair is giving the girls a bath, and singing (to the tune of "row your boat") "row, row, row your poo poo, gently down the stinky..." And the girls are cracking up. And Clio is singing: "Row row row ro, down the down the stinky!" You can see what a sophisticated family we are.
Yes, yes. Peak cuteness. And here are some pictures to prove it, from a backyard BBQ at Aunt Heidi's house. (Photo credits to her as well.)
Me: Here, just choke up on this thing. Or something. Score a touchdown. Or whatever.
Me: Elsa, that's not for you. That's beer, for grown-ups to drink.
Elsa: When I'm a little bit older, I can drink this!
Clio: (Thinks to herself) How about some wine?
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