Eight months is when you officially became dangerous.
First, you sprouted two little razor teeth, giving your ubiquitous sunny smile a maniacal gleam.
Then, you quickly became a very proficient crawler.
In retrospect, we were lucky with Cecilia. Always a bigger baby, and without siblings or energetic puppies to spur her on, she really saw no reason to waste any energy in forward movement. Why spend all those calories when you had two first-time, doting parents to kowtow to your every whim? She took her time. She, quite literally, backed into crawling, spending a solid six weeks sluggishly going in reverse. In short, she was more an F-150 loaded with a bed of cinder blocks. You are more snappy Mini Cooper with a double espresso for fuel.
Once you got up onto all fours and found some traction with your new sneakers, you were doing laps through the kitchen, living room and dining room. You were giving Dash no quarter, chasing him down or trying to go through his legs. You needed to know now (!) what was on every tabletop or piece of furniture. Your life depended on it. And don’t get me started on big sister. If she made a noise in the house, it was your personal mission to find her and rescue her. You would not be denied.
With your new chompers, you quickly grew tired of boring pureed food, even if it was in a space-age tube (the tube food blew GiGi’s mind). You wanted puffs, Cheerios, peas, square carrots and macaroni. If it didn’t meet your emerging Michelin standards you were quick to let us know, swiping anything off your tray in a furious windmill. Dash was delighted. Mama was not.