Anjelica just celebrated her first birthday. She is such a smart little cookie, and so cute. She loves pink and anything Minnie Mouse. She’s been walking for quite a while and has a large vocabulary for her age. I keep up on what she’s supposed to be doing by what age, and she’s typically ahead of schedule. She can do some basic counting and has a keen sense of humor. I kept talking about her one-year birthday, and she understood. But if I ask, “How old is Anjelica?”, she smiles and raises two fingers and says, “Two!” She laughs, and I say, “No, silly, you’re one,” and put down one of her fingers. And she laughs and says, “No, I’m Two,” and puts her second finger back up. God, she is fun. When I bring her to work sometimes, she plays by my side with toys pulled from a box I keep under my desk, but she isn’t shy about wandering around to hang out with all the other people in the office. Just about everyone is willing to let her climb up on their lap to play.

Lou has a great time playing with her, and she loves to rough house with him, especially when he makes an Anjelica sandwich. That’s when she runs around our bed, he catches her, picks her up smooshed between two pillows and throws her down on the bed. She gets up over and over laughing and giggling the whole time squealing, “do it again.”  She’s never gotten hurt that way, but on her birthday, she had her first and only injury ever to draw blood. I was sitting with her on our bed, and she just tipped over the edge and hit her head on the nightstand. I caught her before hitting the floor, but I wasn’t quick enough to spare her pain. Now she has a cut across her forehead that looks a lot like mine. Hopefully hers won’t scar for life like mine.