Early this morning, in the kitchen.

Eric is getting his lunch for work ready. Lucy is in her exercauser, gnawing on her water-filled teether duckie and babbling.

The floor around her is strewn with toys: little plastic blocks, crinkly bugs, a cow armband rattle with plastic legs (who comes up with these things?!), a stuffed honey bear. Lucy awkwardly, but deliberately, picks objects up, gums them, bangs them, raises them over her head with a holler, watches as they slip from her chubby fingers and careen across the hardwood.

I grin at Lucy and toss the reachable toys back on the yellow plastic ledge, clearing the minefield for a moment. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Eric shakes his head and smiles:

"Every time I do that I feel like I’m loading a weapon."

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