movin’ and wavin’

afternoon struggles

I have dreaded afternoons each day this week. I am not sure what is, but you have resisted them fiercely. I have put you down earlier and later, and each day you fight for at least forty-five minutes, despite clear indicators that you are sleepy—rubbing eyes, grunting, yawns. When you do finally give in, you sleep hard for forty minutes or so. Yesterday we were at the neighbor’s house for the big Memorial Day horseshoe tournament, and since you had taken a whopping 3 hour morning nap, we decided to skip the afternoon nap of torture. You did really well—no crankiness and went to sleep as usual for the night, sleeping until 7:15 this morning. Who knows?!? Perhaps you have a lot on your mind. Afterall, you are crawling, waving and using the more sign, though you are not sure in what context to use it. It comes up a lot on the changing table for some reason. More what? Butt cream? As big as you seem to me, you don’t seem ready to only have one nap a day. A six hour stretch to be awake is a long one for you. You’ll get the hang of all this, I know, and I will figure things out too, I hope.

waves of joy

Now that you have learned to wave, it is your favorite form of communication. Right now it seems as if you have reserved it exclusively for Daddy and me (and some inanimate objects), but I have a feeling you’ll soon be waving to the world. Yesterday you pulled yourself up on the stove (no worries, it was not on), saw your reflection in the oven window, and began waving vigorously. It is so rewarding to get what amounts to a visual word from you, complete, of course, with a one-toothed grin that reaches easily from ear to ear.

being social

First ride in a shopping cart at Fresh Market in Florida…
Playing with Kinza on the floor of Daddy’s office…
Grinning with Daddy at the Spring Hill fish fry…
Morning bottle with Daddy at Portland Brew…

Busy, busy bee…

beach bummin’

You and I have been a little incommunicado, unplugged as we were by design while we spent some relaxing time at the beach just outside Destin, Florida. We were down there with Yia-yia, Papou and Thia for nine days. I think beach air suits you, a suspicion we had back in December when we took the cruise in the Caribbean. Each morning after your first bottle, I tucked you into the Bjorn and we went for a walk on the beach, soaking up the early morning sun before its rays became too harmful and searching for wave-worn shells suitable for you to gnaw on. Afterward you would nap hard—tired out by sun, wind and waves. Your great-grandmother’s house is tucked secretly into the dunes at the preserve at Four Mile, and it has wonderful airy windows and open expanses of dark brown hardwood floors. I’m pretty sure it’s where you honed your crawling skills.

Your love of the ocean is still to be determined. I think it’s cold and a bit overwhelming for you still. On a calmer day, Yia-yia and I started you out in a tidal pool at the edge of the water, then moved you into the water, then crept you up to the edge of the crashing waves. You seemed to appreciate the gradual introduction. Overconfident in the previous day’s successes, I started you out in my lap at the water’s edge, and you cried and clawed your way up out of the crashing foaminess. It was not my smartest momma move. The silly (but necessary, I realize) sunscreen just complicated your chances of enjoyment. It irritated your eyes and then your nose, making it run and tickle. When you went to scratch or rub it, you took handfuls of sand to your nose and mouth and eyes. That was certainly not comfortable. I tried to help, but your resented my efforts to clean your hands of sand or to wipe your nose for you. It was a complicated situation.

We met with great success in dry sand though. You grabbed handfuls of it and watched it fall. You clapped the new texture together in your hands. You wiggled your toes in it. You even tasted it, and your expression stated clearly that you did not find it tasty.