You are nearly eight months old now.
Since my last newsletter, two months ago, you have changed so much, again. The speed of your development amazes me. And, what's more, not only are you changing and growing, but once you've acquired a new skill, it is seems as though you pack it neatly under your belt, never forgetting, always improving on it.
This is definitely unlike myself. I will learn some econometric technique, use it several times for a project. Then, months later come back to it, and it will seem foreign to me as though I am meeting a person for the first time. Not even remembering the face and forgetting the name.
You are amazing that way, Big.
Since my last newsletter you seem practically all grown. Headed off to college.
You finally learned to coordinate your arms and legs to the point of ambulation (on knees) across a flat plane last weekend while we were at the North Shore with MRM#1 and MRM#2. As the SYO enjoyed High School Musical for the 18th time in a row, we let you "vocalize" your way to mastery. Heretofore, you had only been able to get on your hands and knees, rocking your way to frustrated oblivion and a degree of vocalization that I, while alone with you, could not fully absorb. Usually, I would rescue you from your misery and wisk you off to your preferred destination. With the help of three other adults, though, we let you frustrate yourself to mastery.
This, of course, has changed our lives dramatically. You and your unpredictable ways can now be found in odd corners of the rooms after only brief moments out of the room to, perhaps, urinate, for example.
Childproofing has recommenced at a more vigorous pace.
When you're tired, and it is close to bedtime, your vocalizations seem to become more poignant. It is as though you're saying: I know that I'm off to bed now, so let me be more direct with you. To be sure that you understand what I am saying: BABABABABABABA! or MAMAMAMAMAMAMA!
You have inadvertently chosen to vocalize the names we're planning on calling ourselves. But we don't care. We pretend that you know what you're doing all the same, oohing and ahhing back at you. I sometimes respond with a chorus of "Barbara Ann" by the Beach Boys because of it's "BA - BA - BA" lyrics.
We're also learning a little more about your personality.
I would characterize you as, well, as aggressive. I have four empirical observations to support this conclusion.
1. BioMom said that after nipping her n*#$@le, you laughed. Hard.
2. I have observed you grabbing at our littlest cat's hair and pull it. Hard. Afer she cries out and wrangles herself away from your tiny vice grip, you then chase after her, black hairs poking from between your tight-fisted fingers, on your hands and knees, giggling all the while.
3. Snap the bow of my favorite glasses on one single twist, and then laugh when I responded with a resounding "NO!" (Running tally of costs due to your shenanegans: $70).
4. Persist on rolling over, head butting, putting your mouth all over, grabbing the hair of, and squeezing the face of a baby about your age who was visiting the other night.
You definitely know your own name, but I'm not sure that you recognize any other specific form of our language, or the two ASL words I've been using with you regularly: "milk" and "more".
You're eating loads of stuff now, but wanting a small, rare fillet. I can barely carry you in the Bjorn and, in fact, bought one with more back support as a birthday gift for myself.
When we go to get you from your crib first thing in the morning, or after any of your naps, you wrap your arms around our necks, squeezing, and your little mouth, open and wet, searches our face in your wild form of a kiss, as if to say: OH! It's YOU! I missed you so much! I'm so glad you're here!
You make me laugh. Hard. Deep belly laughs that warm me up and make everything else just roll off my back.
Thank you again, sweet potato.