"Look Mommy, it's a pancake! It's a pancake!"
Repeating things twice for emphasis is part of her journey right now, and her obvious enthusiasm is catching.
"You want some, too?" She asks, voice trilling high at the end to indicate her query, holding out a glob of playdough - which, for the record, in no way resembles a pancake - for me to sample.
Of course I take it, and make overly loud munching noises while holding the stuff far away from my mouth.
It's no fine line between pretend-eating and having a two year old with traces of green playdough between her teeth.
"Mmmm!" I enthuse, smiling and handing it back to her, "that is the best pancake I have ever had!"
We repeat the process: It's a cookie; now a snake. We roll the ball mommy created back and forth across the table, watching it wobble to tell me that I clearly can't make a perfect sphere. She smashes it and burries her little fingers in it and tears it apart and squishes it back together.
She's a symphony of motion, this beautiful child of mine.
Sometimes the motion lands her squarely in time out. Sometimes the sweet voice turns demanding and whiny. Sometimes the body I love to cradle flops, belly first, onto the floor in an act of simultaneous defiance and frustration.
But much, much more often, I can't help but marvel at these moments I get to be home with her. To witness the ordinary miracle that is her day.
Yes. This is my life.