Special Delivery is seventeen months old, and he doesn’t walk. He runs. He’s everywhere. He’s a pilferer and a climber, and he’s either way ahead of you or trying to get somewhere.
He’s literally into everything, and you shouldn’t turn your back on him ‘cause he’ll do things like stand on the kitchen table and hurl the pepper shaker across the room. Or open the oven door and stand on it. (Thank goodness the stove wasn’t on that day.)
The little stinker is so cute you can’t help but laugh.
Well, maybe it’s easier to laugh when you’re not the parent and you’re just a relative who wants to spoil him rotten. I had to tie plastic Wal-mart sacks around the handles to keep him out of the kitchen cabinets Friday evening.
Yep, he’s at that “busy” stage, and between his rapid movements and the impending sunset I had a terrible time getting a sharply focused picture of him. (Note to self: work on shutter speed.) 
The little stinker is so cute you can’t help but laugh. Well, maybe it’s easier to laugh when you’re not the parent and just a relative who wants to spoil him rotten. All of those times when Teen Angel was little and Super Cop would laugh because Hubby and I didn’t know what we were doing? It’s all comin’ back to haunt him now, and I can’t help but laugh. From this point forward, the terms “Special Delivery” and “Wiggle Britches” shall be used synonymously on this blog. I don’t know what’s more fun, watching Wiggle Britches run or watching Super Cop chase him. One thing’s for sure. I won’t be dishing out any meaningful discipline on the little guy when he’s at my house. In fact, he and I have a deal. I won’t tell about the Tupperware he dragged into my bathroom and he won’t tell about that chocolate pie his Aunt Hula fed him right before he went home and went to bed.
