Audrey has entered the world of the purposely mobile. Shocking but true. Okay, maybe not shocking—she’s almost six months old. But true nonetheless.

Last week I could lay her on a blanket; she might roll off, but wouldn’t get far. Now, nothing on the floor is safe. Through a series of rolls and forward scoots, the girl maneuvers her way to almost anywhere in the house.

I don’t actually know if she’s getting where she wants to go, since she doesn’t tell me where she’s headed before she takes off. But she’s always happy when she gets there; either she has terribly good body aim or she’s got one of those “eh, we’ll see where we are when we get there” travel philosophies. Which she would not have inherited from anyone around here.

Mostly she winds up with her face pressed against the mirrored closet doors. Apparently we’re not kissing her slobberishly enough, and she has to fill her own quota by applying wet affection to her own reflection.

I’m working on teaching the bigger kids to keep anything choke-worthy off the floor (or re-teaching, in Abigail’s case, though she never really got the hang of it the last time around, either). It mostly involves a lot of me explaining and them staring blankly at me. Clearly they wonder why anyone would ever want to put rocks, pennies, or dollhouse furniture in their mouths. I continue to assure them that she will. Then they run to play outside with me yelling, “Don’t step on the baby! She’s moved since the last time you ran through here!”

People keep saying, “Oh, she’ll move early; she’ll want to run after the big kids and join in the fun!”

I say, “Or she’ll want to run the other way.”

They always think I’m kidding.