The toddler zone

Our friend Luke fed Lyla breakfast this morning. It was her first meal of the decade, and she wholeheartedly approved of his technique, or rather lack thereof.

Lyla is starting to climb. We have this crappy square butcher block on wheels thing in our kitchen, and under it is a shelf. I sat on the floor for 20 minutes this afternoon watching Lyla pull herself onto the shelf and awkwardly slide off it. I was spotting her the whole time but trying to be cool about it, lest she roll her eyes at me and say, "Da-ad, quit acting like I'm a baby."

There's not always a lot to talk about when she's busy with something. It's like she's in the zone and cannot be bothered. Up the shelf, down the shelf, up, down. "So Lyla, what in the world are you thinking about?" Up. Down. Up. Down.

Sometimes it's the drawer of photos. Lyla gets this determined look in her eye as she transfers every single photo to the floor. Same with Julie's purse. She'll take her mama's small purse out of the bigger purse (it's like babushka purses), and run around with the credit cards. Lyla's in the toddler zone during those moments, and there's nothing you can say that would be of any consequence. "Ooh, Lyla, you found Tic-Tacs!" She does not hear you because she has forgotten you exist.

It happens at mealtime occasionally, too. Certainly during the Kix and yogurt bloodbath this morning, she was in the zone. Then tonight she had pizza and, well, you can see for yourself.