The Bean's DNA has really kicked in over this past month.
For anyone who has read this blog for any considerable time you will, no doubt, know of my tendencies towards total cowardice, physical awkwardness and extreme dislike of all things extreme - except maybe extreme ice cream eating, as long as it's plain chocolate.
Naturally, I married a man who climbs mountains, owns more motorcycles than I have pairs of jeans and considers a vacation a trip involving sliding down a mountain on a plank of wood or racing across the desert on 4-wheelers for 8 hours straight. I file these activities under "Don't Do These Things Unless You Like Extreme Pain and Better Yet Just Stick a Hot Poker in Your Ear because At Least that's Warm;" he files these activities under "Fun."
The Bean is her father's daughter.
It started with the flying. You know what I'm talking about...lift the child up in your arms and zoom around the room like they're Superman. The Bean is convinced this is the only civilized way to be carried throughout life. And you had better be humming some John Williams' inspired theme music while you are flying her around or else, what's the point, really?
If you try to sit her in your lap, The Bean will wriggle free and begin to climb down your legs - head first - while you frantically hold on to a toe to keep her from crashing to the ground. The shit-eating grin on her face during this interaction has convinced me she will be jumping out of planes by the time she's 5.
I made a vow when I became a mother that I would encourage all things daring in my child so she does not end up a 33-year old who breaks out in a cold sweat when in close proximity to bicycles, ice skates and skis (like some people I may or may not see when I look in the mirror).
Lately The Bean has been hard at work on sitting up. She's quite good at it though there are times when the head size she inherited from her father knocks her off-balance and sends her careening into the floor.
My instinct is to rush over and pull her back up and check her head for major signs of trauma...but I resist the urge. Instead, she falls, looks at me all confused-like, I cheer, she smiles and life amazingly goes on.
The other night, however, we both got a little over confident in her sitting ability. Let's just say The Bean, the couch and then the floor were involved. Infants move quick, especially when gravity is involved.
I rushed over ready to swoop up my child who would most certainly break into tears any minute having rolled off the couch in hot pursuit of a rogue block.
Instead I was greeted with a child looking at me as though she wanted to do the whole thing all over again and how come I kept this awesome activity a secret from her. She broke out into laughter and the daredevil glint in her eyes made her look exactly like her father.
There is no doubting this kid's paternity; the maternity is still in question.