01 March 2010

On Pointing, Furniture Walking, and Really Bad Hair.

The boy child, he deserves an update. I haven't done one in awhile. He's growing. So big. Yes, I know you're shocked, but he's growing, it's true. Every day I about fall over because of some weird new little thing he does. Like stand up like a little grown man, hands clapsed together politely and a look of total "so tell me about your day" on his face. All that's missing is a Ralph Lauren turtleneck cashmere sweater and nice glass of merlot grasped in those hands. Well, and about 25 years or so. But I can see it!


Um, in this shot he's all his weird, weird mother.

Nice face!

Where was I again? Ah yes, the Doots. Bee-bop. Robot. In true fashion, he has a bajillion nicknames, and he turns to look when he hears any of them. That's my boy.

Peter points at things now. He points at mom and dad when asked (or not asked), at toys and the television and oven and wall and basically anything that gets in his way. Totally no discrimination. He just points and points and POINTPOINTPOINT! Go back through the last few posts and you'll see what I mean. It's at the point (POINT!) of being a wee bit unnerving.

He is independent, very much about exploring all of a sudden. One night he very strangely moved more than a foot away from me, then continued to do so, a foot at a time, stopping and sitting and turning to look at me at every new foot of space. After that, it was all over. I turn my head for just a moment to finish whatever I'm doing at that moment, and he's slipped away to find something new and exciting. Under the bed, in the corner of the living room near the window, scaling the buffet at the far end of the dining room.

There he goes, no holding him back any longer. He pulls things off shelves and he stares googly-eyed at the Outside World from windows and he tastes and feels and throws and does all sorts of experiments in our house. Time to baby-proof, for real this time, it's well overdue.

His hair. Can we discuss his hair? He finally started growing some, no more Homer Simpson-esque hairdos for this little man. The problem, though, is that while it filled in a bit, from there on out it has grown in wild tufts. All soft and downy baby hair, so it sticks out in random patches. It's hysterical but man. Those are some harsh cowlicks, my poor boy.

He loves his gear toys. And toy cars and trucks, such a boy. Also he's not content to play with any of these toys on the floor, but instead places them at the highest points he can reach on the coffee table, the tv stand, the ottoman and chairs. Then he laps the room, standing and holding on, rambling from table to stand to ottoman to chair, slowly but surely he gets around in a standing position. Somewhat. I think standing and walking may be a bit of a ways off for us.

He's a pig, we all know that. Observe the chocolate bunny massacre below. He also has no regard for the method in which he eats, and he's extra-drooly with these new teeth, so if you forget the bib you should expect to soak his clothing in Oxy-Clean afterwards. He's an absolute mess. In fact, pictures after this one are semi-nude thanks to the dirty shirt problem.

He's all about the reading lately. Not you reading to him, though (although he has a soft spot for The Very Hungry Caterpillar, every time we read it he is just enthralled and looks up at me and screams. And yeah. We pretty much read that one several times a day). Anyhoo. He would rather pretend he's reading on his own, so he regularly pulls out our magazines and gives them a good reading. Then page-ripping. Whatever, in his mind it's all the same.

Did I mention the pointing? Because it's like, everywhere. EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME.

Also picture does not represent this point, but! So yesterday, I was folding clothes in the bedroom and Peter was zooming (aka pulling around on furniture) like a madman. Scott called me on my cell - he was running errands and had a question - and on a whim, I put Peter on the phone. I rarely do this, basically because my dear boy never realizes what in the hell is going on anyway, so why bother. But! This time was different! He smiled, and cooed, and his eyes got huge and he stared at the phone and pulled it to his chest and smiled and oh, wow. So I get Scott off the phone, and bend down to ask Peter if he talked to Da-Da (like, duh stupid question) and he looks at me, clear-eyed and smiling and says, "Da-Da! Da-Da!" while waving the phone.

And then, he never did it again. Not when prompted, or told, 'DA DA DA DA' all the live long day, or shoved in his father's face, just nothing. So it was actually Officially Nothing. But for a split second it was a giant something of nothing! That I, personally, will never forget. So there.

He loves to walk. Walk walk walk! Well, not actually walk, more like walks-with-toy-handicap. That's okay, I'll wait for the walking. I enjoy crawling and creeping on tippy-toes and sometimes even standing.

Oh yes, just one last thing - and his feet are pretty much way too big for his 0-12-month-size Johnny socks. That doesn't matter, I squeeze his fat feet in them anyway.

So there you go. And update. And about a thousand things that say: girl, he's barely a baby. Well on his way to toddlerhood. Be prepared. Get the gates up. Be ready to retire the burp rags. Start researching potty chairs.

And yet, and yet. And yet.

So much still my baby, thank goodness.

For at least a few more months, anyway.


Michelle said...

Doots and your posts always lift my spirits, but this time more so than usual. And it warranted a comment!

Nikki Northstrom said...

I love your, "Da da," moment!