Potatobone

He's been asking me when she'll be able to eat adult food. Every day he looks at my big bowls and makes a pile of mud and a lot of mud and a lot of steam and grinding and mixing. It's not just him, but I'm looking forward to a day when I can cook for my family, and I don't have to eat a few meals a day alone. I'm looking forward to it. By the end of the year, my baby will have grown up, too, and will you be able to shout with the ribs: "Mima, this meat smells good and I want to eat more." Fifteen months of precious talent has grown, and now the volume of words has increased dramatically, mainly by word. Tell her it's a cake, for example, and she'll repeat it herself. She'll hold the doll, and she'll shake right and left, like a grown-up baby, in her mouth. Let her drink, and she'll take a bottle of water and feed all the toys she sees first and then drink it herself. He held his cat doll, turned his cat face out and suddenly moved back to himself and said, "Cat," and he was playing hide-and-seek with toys. This is getting fun. Tooths have grown, grinding food is not a problem, as long as she doesn't want to play and eat fast. I hope she'll be able to eat my ribs by the New Year's Eve。