Brinley is headed for trouble and I'm letting her take me there with me.
(Photo by Danielle Petkau of Soltura Photography.)
At not-quite two years old, she has a firm will and a strong pair of lungs that see to it her opinions are heard, loudly and clearly. Our life is already such a zoo that I often give in to her shrieks ("Fine, have that third lollipop! Just be quiet!") and she knows how to work the situation to her advantage.
Admitting the problem is the first step, right?
Then there's the other side of the coin: she's my last baby. When she wakes up and cries in the night and I stumble down the dark hallway to pick up her warm, tired body and soothe her cries, she probably doesn't need her bottle to be topped up. But I refill it anyways and take her to the chaise and she rests on my chest and I just breathe in the fleeting nature of it all. She can have a midnight bottle until she's 12, is what I'm saying.
Did you find it shockingly easy to spoil your last baby? Did it come back and bite you in the rear-end later when they grew up to be selfish, entitled brats? Please say no.