18 months

Phoebe turned 18 months old this week. A whole year-and-a-half old.

Our ball of energy just keeps growing. Literally and figuratively.

At 34 inches tall, she’s in the 90th percentile in height, making us wonder what hidden genes she got from two people that have historically short families.

Climbing and jumping on furniture continues to be one of her favorite delights, and one of our biggest fears. Along with running wherever there’s a clear path … Once all of us were home together yesterday afternoon, Kates and I watched for about 10 minutes as Phoebe ran up and down our hallway repeatedly, shouting “Go!” every time she took off. Our hallway was like her own little running track.

Last night, as Kates and I were preparing supper in the kitchen, we were discussing that we needed to be on alert for the time she starts climbing on kitchen chairs and trying to reach counter tops … Then, for the first time, within minutes of that conversation – right in front of Kates and I, as if she’s been doing it for months – Phoebe sauntered over to the dining table, nonchalantly pulled out a chair and started climbing up to the seat. It was stunning to watch, and yet a little hilarious in the no-problem way she approached it.

Lights remain a fascination for her … along with shoes. She'll sit on the living room floor for lengths of time, getting immersed with trying to put her shoes on. Though she hasn’t figured out the process entirely, she can get her toes into the shoes – although not always on the right feet – and then points to them and says, “On!” … And if she ever sees my shoes lying outside of a closet, she’s quick to bring them to me, saying “shoes!”

The real delight though was having her cuddle up and sit on the couch with me last night for an hour straight while we watched the Dodgers-Phillies game. Sure, she was playing with her shoes again, but I was just happy to have her sitting still with me.

Her bedtime call to me has become a rite of passage … Each night I retreat to our den while Kates gives Phoebe her bath. But when they’re finished and Phoebe is ready for bed, I can count on hearing Phoebe’s pitter-pattering across the upstairs floor and her calling “Daaaaaaaadeeeeeeee!” from the top of the stairs. That's my signal that it's time for me to help tuck her in to bed; it melts my heart.

Phoebe has her very own Ernie doll now …

Recently it seems she’s developed a little crush on the fun-loving, orange-skinned Muppet. We noticed she was constantly flipping through a large Sesame Street book and pointing to “Ernie!” So after a few nights, I pulled my Ernie doll from a shelf in Phoebe’s room, which Kates and I had loaded with some of the favorite stuffed animals and dolls from our childhoods. When I handed that Ernie doll to Phoebe, her smile and eyes got as wide as we’ve ever seen. She held it tight and carried it everywhere for as long as we’d allow.

However, that Ernie doll is nearly as old as I am. My grandmother re-stitched its middle a million times, and one of its ears is hanging on by a thread. It’s pretty worn, and I couldn’t bare to see any further damage to it.

So while Kates and I were doing some errands over the weekend, and strolling through the toy aisle at Target to get some Christmas gift ideas, we spotted an Ernie doll. We had no choice but to get it for Phoebe … She held tight to it all the way home.