This is me at 8 months. I've come a long way from tearing books off shelves, and reading in my birthday suit---okay, maybe not.
My mother would line my crib with these cardboard picture books that would fold up like an accordion. She would buy them for a quarter at the thrift store, and I would coo over the images of the sneaky mouse hiding in the boot, in the roll of toilet paper, or behind a stack of blocks. "Where is mouse?" she would say. I couldn't speak yet, but perhaps I was already imagining the trials and tribulations of that mischievous, little creature with beady eyes and mohawked fur. Or maybe I was mouse; uncouth in getting caught.