This is a picture of my daughter Veronica. Teething.
As a baby she would crawl underneath our kitchen table, latch on to the wrought iron chair legs, and begin gumming the metal. I would drag her out by the legs and move her to the other room. She kept coming back.
No matter what I did, she would army crawl back and we would repeat the process. Again. And again. And again. I finally gave up and just took a picture. But this process lasted for weeks.
We call her Rocky, a nickname she gave herself. As a toddler, she would sit in a little rocking chair, and rock back and forth saying, “Rocky, baby! Rocky, baby!”. The name stuck. But looking at this picture, I think the nomenclature goes back a bit further. Not quite the Italian Stallion, but that teething picture looks like something out of a Rocky training montage. Queue the theme song.
Today is Rocky’s 13th birthday. She was born at a whopping 10 pounds. No ounces. Just a perfect 10.
If I had to travel to a foreign country where I didn’t know the language, I would take Rocky with me in a heartbeat. She is full of adventure and curiosity. She has the voice of an angel (though I hope we pass through this Phantom of the Opera phase soon). When not reading voraciously, she performs countless acts of service around our home.
Happy Birthday, Rocky baby!