Today you are sixteen months old.

The challenge with parenting, as I have stated numerous times before, is that it is an ever moving target. It is one of those awful games at a carnival. It is something I can never win.

So it begs the question, Is it even about winning?

Obviously not, because I aim, I fire, I miss. Every single time.

Just when I think I have a pattern, I've got it down, we can do this. It changes.

This month you want it a certain way. Your way. All the time.

I pull out a shirt in the morning for you to put on and you proceed to pull out everything in the drawer searching for the one thing you want to wear.

You still need my help for so many tasks but you're so close to not needing me at all. Like, you know that the keys go in the ignition, now if only you could reach the pedals.

You are no one's baby. You are Paloma.

Today I declare myself a Fancy Shot. I aim behind my back, under my leg, with my best Charlie's Angels hair flowing.

Because I'm going to miss. But hell if I didn't look good while trying.

Happy sixteenth monthday.