Rolling left now, instead of just right and sitting -guarded but unassisted for several minutes this morning.

[talking to folks at McLean, face falling when move on [with arrow to next entry – about McLean]

Nascent crawling, a full circle, pivoting on your nose

jumping in your new chair

the wonders of orange food

banging the table (imitation)

You’ve really seemed to come into your own over the past few days – both to know your own self a bit and to seem distinctively you, and not just a baby to others. Your Aunt Sam, along with Granny-mom, is smitten with you. And for good reason – you were perfect company – talking with everyone in your eager, wide-eyed way, chomping happily on a butter plate throughout our somewhat fancy lunch, and dropping happily to sleep when it was time to shop. Though your need/desire to chew can sometimes frustrate you to tears, you’re generally such pleasant company. Happy with a little funny noise or smile in your direction. Today we were at Starbucks and, by the counter where I was waiting for my coffee there was a bin of stuffed animals – bears with hooded jackets that looked like chicks (not unlike you in your lion suit). I wiggled it towards you – not expecting much – and you laughed out loud. It’s such a (so far) rare and wonderful sound that I’ve become obsessed with it and I’m sure annoy you with my feeble (and mostly futile) attempts to be funny.

It’s a little hard to tell about your chewing, since you tend to stop when you’ve been fed, though not always. You’ve become so physically able. You stand rock solid now, not a wiggle to your neck and shoulders like there used to be – a sweet little palsy that reminded me how little you were (are), and are clearly moving towards sitting now – you’re able to keep your back straight now but still have [to have] lateral support. If you reach for something from a sitting position (and you always reach) you topple right over.

Though you’re still easily redirected, your are remarkably tenacious if you’ve decided on something. Today in the bath you WANTED the frog toy and chased all over the bath to get it. You got a funny, quizzical look on your face when your traditional strategy of moving an object toward you (batting at it) failed to work as you merely pushed the toy under water, only to pop up again someplace else.

But even your batting has become so much more fluid, you focus and hands now synchronized whereas before you seemed to need to move towards objects in stages, one layer of focus at a time.

Dad’s entry:

I love the snuggly and you seem to as well. You ride face out, arms and legs extended, eyes wide like a little baby sunburst shining out on the world. Early Sunday morning, March 21, 50 degrees, sunny with little wind. We walked to Inman Square for coffee and bagels and lox. People say hi to you and wave at you and occasionally don’t even look at me. I don’t mind ’cause it makes it like we’re one person who doesn’t require two greetings. You coo and nap and crane your head around so you don’t miss anything and you’re almost always happy in the snuggly, walking and walking, like your Ma, you’ll walk forever. When it’s cold I have a fluffy-big down coat that fits around both of us (maybe there’s a picture somewhere), and your little head sticks out at the top of my chest, and we walk and walk and get coffee and say “hi” to people.

You’ve been going to bed early (7:30-8:30) this past little while and are up with the birds.

You lie in bed wiggling – not unhappy but definitely not on your way back to sleep. When I turn to look at you you grin and reach for my face.

You smile and your eyes – and of course the two together – are so alive now. Your eyes are a clear, pale blue and whenever you’re engaged you open them wide and lean forward, often with your arms outstretched to “talk” with whomever has caught your attention. If you’re standing on my lap when you’re talking like this you often bounce a bit for emphasis. People love it, and as the smiles go back and forth there seems, really, to be a conversation.

[entry notes: “Stephen Evans,” a friend who died this day]

You’re really rolling over now, from back to front, where you get, not quite happily, stuck. Yesterday you were a riot – from laborious occasional flipping you moved to relatively effortless frequent flipping and looked both stunned and oh-so-pleased with yourself each time.

I wonder if you’re sick of Pete Seeger yet. I play him as a connection to what was always most assured when I was a kid – listening to music with your Grandmother Gay, dancing, sure that she had the most beautiful voice in the whole world – with Pete Seeger’s resonant, rousing, peaceful voice accompanying.

It makes me a little sad, a little nostalgic, but also hopeful.

Day before yesterday, the 7th, you had your first solid food (captured exhaustively on video of course). People told us you’d look shocked and dribble most of the cereal out – so much for them, you took to it like your Dad to foie gras with intensity and pleasure, guiding his hand into your mouth. You’re a constant surprise and pleasure beyond reckoning.

You’re in your “new” exersaucer, spinning around and looking for something to suck on. Sometimes you’re astonishingly proficient. Grabbing the frozen chew toy, running it down your face until you find your mouth, then changing your grip to get a hold which allows you to maneuver it better. Other times you grab the chewing end and don’t manage to do anything but get your fist in your mouth as it’s blocking the toy itself. I think you learn a lot as you do these things, how to manipulate objects, how to focus, how to move in your chair, how to achieve an objective, so I try not to help you too much. You’re right on the edge of frustration, though – your ideas, I think, outrunning your capacity to execute them.

No object permanence yet – you drop the toy off the edge and that’s that – on to the next thing. You couldn’t get the purple elephant attachment into your mouth – too far. Was driving you wild. I took it and put it by your feet (out of sight) and you were fine.

On the 25th and again today you laughed, a rumbly kind of laugh different from your chatty chuckle. It’s all I really want for you that kind of sparkly-eyed delight (especially since I imagine the inputs will improve – I was just making faces and funny noises). You’re also spinning around like a rap [break] dancer when we lay you on the floor. By jackknifing repeatedly you turn 360 degrees and seem quite pleased with yourself.

You often fuss right before you go to sleep – eyes closed – you’re definitely on your way – but unwilling to relinquish your hold. Almost always, though, you turn on your left side and find, by sweeping your hand across your face, your left thumb. Then you reach over with your right hand and hold the extended pinky of your left. And then you’re gone.

Dad’s entry:

The mornings are nice. The three of us bunched together, well comforted with the best blankets and Gram’s quilt. The house is cold, but it’s warm and snuggly in bed. Your back pressed against mine, or maybe me hugging your ma with you on the far side. Some times in the early morning I wake to the brush of your hand or your lightly kicking feet. Your ASL name sign is an “N” with the wrist stretched back as far as it will go — your seraphic stretch is THE morning contagion. Your Ma and I watch it and yawn and flex legs and shoulders and snuggle deeper into bed for a little more. Your Ma usually takes a bath while I change you and play a little and then tuck you back in for a little more sleep. I leave so early now, I kiss you and miss you both all day and day dream about the weekend ahead.

8:30 am – you just rolled over from your front (put there by me) to your back. Five minutes later, with your Dad on the phone, you act as though it never happened and are not at all pleased to find yourself on your belly. Now, with Mister Mistoffelees just out of reach from your back, you’ve scooted yourself over on your side so you can just grab his ear by drawing your legs up and pivoting from the hips. Once you’re over you extend your legs out and up so you’re jackknifed on your side. My last entry notwithstanding, you’ve developed a new sound over the past couple of days – a bubbly k – which I think is far more conversational than your yell (and certainly more contented-seeming). You use it pretty much any time we’re face to face, especially when I come in to get you in the morning, when you smile, stretch and talk, and if you’re lying on your back on the bed [sic]. The sound may really be a return to your “agya,” but now with saliva added, since you make it often after an intake of breath “ah ahhhh… I wish we could capture your morning-time stretch. You arch your back and stretch your face and wiggle your shoulders. It’s a sight to behold! [drawing]