The Boss is in her sportscaster phase. Her life is a play-by-play.
"Running!" she shrieks as her stubby legs and feet that lean away from their arches slam fast across the hardwood floors, or the grass, or the concrete.
She calls it like she sees it at the dinner table. "Mommy is eating," she informs The Partner. Her cocked pointer finger is not accusatory, but gleeful.
When the dog is sunning herself in a patch of light streaming through the window, The Boss is there with the call: "Doggie sleeping." The dog is always sleeping.
Before the verbal trickle became a deluge, her eyes and cries were the only windows into her rapidly expanding brain. Now she is beginning to tell me what she sees. Soon she will tell me what she thinks. We are connected by the communication for now, but independence is on its way.
She is almost two. Go ahead, baby girl. Tell it like it is.