This morning Rachel had strawberry-filled cereal that is super sweet, accompanied by left-over blueberry pancakes with syrup. It's now almost two o'clock in the afternoon and she is bouncing off the walls. Still.
She's spinning in circles, flipping somersaults, climbing up on furniture, jumping off of things, dancing, and singing songs made up entirely of nonsense words.
Then she flips her character around completely and begins screaming and biting her hands and stomping her feet in rage. Usually because we're laughing at her. Because, to be frank, it's quite hilarious to watch/listen to.
I suggested to Andrew that the combination of foods she had for breakfast never be repeated, ever again, and that we should have a sugar-free lunch. I may or may not have used the words "psycho bipolar baby" to describe her behavior.
Shortly after those words escaped my mouth, Rachel climbed up on Andrew's lap and declared triumphantly,
"I'm a polar baby, Daddy!"
Excuse me, now, while I go and pull my daughter off of the ceiling. We might need to admit her for clinical detox.