If I turn my back for one second, she is up on the dining room table (where, usually, I keep a small tray handy with salt, pepper, sugar and a small vase of flowers), sometimes just sitting, but other times dumping piles of salt and sugar around the table. Or maybe she's scaling the windowsill adjacent to our big living room window (which she also fell off of the other night, and scored a black eye).
This girl is busy. Trouble. Peace is only attained when she is sleeping, and usually that time seems better spent on catching up with the big kids' schoolwork. Or laundry. Or collapsing on the sofa with a good book.
And now, there she is. Snack time is over, the Terror is out of her high chair (and therefore, her quasi-containment), and I must hit publish and be off!