It began with a plank. Arms stiff and strong and legs extended. Next, it became a rock. On all fours, jolting back and forth like a mechanical horse that had been fed too many quarters.
After that, you shifted to army crawling. Then small forward leaps. Then the worm. Until finally…you crawled!
Your motion is somehow both hesitant and quick, causing me to rush to protect you from falling guitars, coffee table corners, and tile face plants. And now that you’ve had a taste for mobility, only perpetual motion will do. You would gladly spend your days leaping tall squishy blocks in a single bound, rolling faster than a speeding stroller wheel, and becoming more powerful than a car seat strap.
You really hate those car seat straps.
Baby of Steel? Maybe not. Yet, already you show determination and strength. No matter how far away I place your piano, you forge a path and bang out a song. I’ve watched you briefly hold yourself up on the edge of a table, aim and kick my phone out of my hand, and evade your daddy’s 14th try of putting your pants on.
Though you’ve yet to utter a word, part of me feels we communicate in perfect accord.
You rub your right temple when you get sleepy. If something excites you, the entire neighborhood is treated to the ear-splitting call of a screech owl. When I tickle you on that perfect spot under your left arm, you laugh so hard it causes breathing to become trivial.
And when I pick you up from your babysitter’s house, your eyes light up brighter than a summer day.
I hope, Dexaroo, that you read the message of my own gaze as clearly.