Rollin', rollin', rollin'
That's all little Penelope is doing these days. First she learned how to roll from her belly, onto her left side, onto her back. Then she learned how to roll from her back, onto her right side, onto her belly again.
Folks, this is what we call a log roll. And this is what my daughter does all.day.long. Until she would get in situations like this.
We thought things were under control. She would get caught under a chair, against the wall, etc., and then she would scream. But then she started getting curious. And then her fingers were all over everything.
We soon realized that our current abode is NOT baby-proofed, and we fear we are eerily close to the little one sticking her fingers in something hazardous. (But we may just be every bit the part of paranoid, first-time parents my older siblings try to explain we are.) Instead of buying the $5 plastic things you stick in outlets that save your child from electrocution, this was just the needle on boo's back that convinced me: We need our own place.
It's not that we aren't over-the-moon-grateful for the current space. With my parents' generosity, the price for staying in their condo is more than right. But we hate the idea of getting too comfortable. Of overstaying our welcome. Of never breaking out the crib we bought for our baby about a year ago. Of having our new couch stay wrapped in plastic in the garage forever. Of spending half of my child's early years driving in the car between our home, my sister's home, and jesse's and my respective places of work.
So we hope to roll on. We've put in an offer to buy (yes, BUY) a home. But it's a short-sale, and the pace seems to be slower than the crawl Penelope is now working on. So we may end up renting after all. Until then, I am learning more every day that home is where my heart is. And even though all of my things are in a combination of storage units, garages, and boxes around the house; I'm happy to be making our memories here.
But a girl can dream...
Right?
