Chris and I are at a stage that we can actually turn our backs on Kensington and know that she’s going to be okay. Every outlet is plugged up, every cabinet drawer and door is latched or locked, and all sharp objects are hidden underneath my pillow waiting for January 1 when Chris’s life-insurance through both of our policies double. She’s content with playing in her playroom… putting her baby dolls to sleep, making Elmo drink from the teacup, rolling around in her ball house or her ball pool, pushing her stroller from one side of the living room to another or climbing the ladder to get the candy canes placed on the tree above her reach level.
She’ll never be labeled as a nark. We taught her right. So for now, we won’t ask… because surely, she’s not telling.