When I first started dating your dad, Ella could have best been described as a ruthless killing machine. I suspected she spent her afternoons in her doghouse, reading Machiavelli and planning her next move in her overall goal of making me disappear. The day we came home with Gus, she spent a lot of time explaining to him that he was not allowed to touch HER doghouse, HER pillow, HER bowl, HER air conditioning unit, HER concrete floor, etc.
In summary: She was a working dog who took her work very seriously.
Then, you were born and she mellowed out. Probably because she put on ten pounds. At first this was a mystery to me - I mean, I certainly wasn't feeding her any more - but then I realized that she had found a new best friend who could be counted on to be covered in peanut butter and cheese.
Tonight, you made the sign* that means you're ready to be excused from the dinner table, and you sauntered off into the kitchen.
Just being a smart aleck, I said, "Get up on your stool and fetch your mama some chocolate." And you did. But not before fetching some for yourself.
Then, your dad and I noticed that we were having a peaceful, interruption-free discussion. Something must be amiss! Indeed, you had gotten into my box of groceries in the corner of the kitchen** and were hand-delivering beer pretzels to Ella.
This is why our dog is tubby: because you're helping her carbo-load. But at the end of the day, I'd rather have a fat happy dog who isn't plotting my demise.
Love,
Mom
* While we're not in the baby sign language business, I guess I always pointed down to the ground when I asked you, "Do you want to get down?" So you started pointing the ground whenever you were ready to get down out of your high chair. Only, you don't just point one finger toward the ground - it's more of a couple of fingers in a weird rotating gesture. You look less like a baby done with dinner, and more like you're throwing gang signs in Compton. But it works.
** Because I don't have a pantry. Remember?
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