So I spent the weekend helping to pack moving boxes and not crying about how Baby Brother and Donut are not my favorite family because they’re taking the toddler namesake to another state. North Dakota. What the h-e-double-hockey sticks kind of place is that to raise a child? Might as well dump her on an alien world where she’ll have to breathe helium and grow tentacles and fur to survive. Whatever. I don’t want to talk about it.

K-Pam 1-1/2 years. Adorbz.

Let’s talk about this instead: Could you deny this face anything? And K-Pam totally digs horses, so Aunty Pam is buying a first-class ticket for this baby-train.

For a good five minutes at the big box store on Saturday, we galloped around on giant stuffed horses. (Please squeeze the left ear to hear it whinny and the right ear to make the clippity-clop noise.)

Then she was adrenalin-junky crazy about the super-fast, old-fashioned carousel horses at A Carousel for Missoula. Seriously, baby-cowgirl knew to kick the horse to make it go, said “giddyup” close to a million times and laughed and shook with excitement over and over during the hair-blown-back ride. She totally cried every time we took her off the carousel horse. You don’t even have to pinch her cheeks to check the ripeness of that cute fruit.

She randomly says things like “cool” and “whoa-ho-ho” and “awesome.” Though her pronunciation of that last word sounds like “ass-hooo” — and it took a random act of mimicking someone’s excited “awesome” to figure out that she wasn’t saying “what it sounded like she was saying.” Yes, kudos to Aunty Pam for not asking the tyke outright, “Did you just say ‘asshole,’ child? Awesome!” The conundrum is that (because she invariably would’ve mimicked my every word) I would’ve discovered the mispronunciation issue right then … which is to say, right after I taught her to say “asshole.”

Kids are tricky little bastards.

K-Pam, you can hate me for this later --- it'll just make me laugh again.

One saving grace that helps a person keep proper perspective around such boundless adorableness is the random drama-queen temper tantrum. I didn’t have the camera with me for the really good tantrum that involved a full-out belly flop, followed by kicking of the little feet and some of that really cheesy, fake wailing.

For a moment tonight, I pondered the fact that maybe I shouldn’t post the photo because she’s too young to understand that Aunty Pam is capable of sharing, and willing to share, her paroxysms of faux-distress with the world. But the moment was fleeting, as they say. I am far too amused by the antics to keep this photo to myself.

Besides, it’ll give her something to talk about in therapy in a decade or two. Why should mom and dad get to hog all the blame for her future mental distress. I can be just as bad as any parent, and I want some recognition, damnit.

Does this make me paparazzi? at: pam(at)