Rooful.

Mama's boy.

"How's it going, honey?"

"Well, he's really tired. But he won't sleep. He seems to have stopped crying, though, so that's good."

"Yeah."

We all sat for a moment at the edge of the bed.

"I think he just wants to be with us. I've heard this is a big age for separation anxiety and stuff."

"Yeah. Poor little guy."

"Well, I think I'll leave you two to it."

Cue slow-growing wail.

"Um, honey? I think it's you he's missing."

"Really?"

I came back and sat down. The wailing stopped.

"Um, yeah. He misses his mama"

J handed him to me.

"Oh! Well, I'm sure he just wants both of us together!"

"Really? Let's see."

He got up and walked out to the hall. Nothing.

"Oh."

"I'm trying not to be hurt by this!"

"He turned and watched you the whole time you walked away."

"Hmphm."

Pause.

"I've read about this, sweetie. It comes and goes. Sometimes it'll be you he'll want to be with, and I'll be the one feeling left out."

"Yeah. I know."

"You know, sometimes when you and he are playing, he laughs so hard, harder than he ever does with me, and it makes me feel like I must be the boring, no-fun parent. But maybe we each have our thing. Maybe you're super-fun, and..."

"And you're comfort."

"Maybe. That's not so bad, right?"

Three cheers for the Sprog!

It rained all day today.

After I got the laundry under control (ish), I considered my restless boy. He was squawking and wearing a circle into the middle of the living room rug.

"We've gotta get out of here. Come on, Sprog-- let's make a break for it."

I bundled him into the carrier, grabbed an umbrella, and we went. Nothing fancy-- got some coffee at the DD, went to the bank, bought some new foundation at the drugstore.

We happened to be just outside this strange toy store/hobby shop/craft center amalgam when the rain really started coming down. Well, all right then! We went inside, browsed blocks and music kits and various Fisher Price paraphernalia.

I ended up buying an inflatable bouncy ball for him, and a hula hoop for me (I've been meaning to learn. Shut up.) All in all, I spent about six dollars. Money well-spent, I hope.

The rain was falling in a gentle patter against my umbrella, which cast a lavendar glow over our faces as I trudged up the hill to our apartment. Sprog was intrigued by the canopy. He'd alternate between hanging his head all the way back, to gaze up at the spokes, and popping upright to shoot me what looked an awful lot like conspiratorial grins.

I was in a great mood when I unlocked our apartment door. Fiona was there, waiting for us. Then she turned and stopped to sniff an invisible something on the floor, as cats do when they want to be right in your way, but still want to seem nonchalant.

I was feeling goofy. And I've found that when you spend a good portion of you day with little non-verbal creatures, you do what you can to keep yourself entertained.

"Oh, look, Sprog! Fee is greeting us by presenting her kitty butthole!

Hooray for the kitty butthole!
Hooray for the kitty butthole!
Hooray for the kitty butthole!
Hooray!"

Yeah. I know. But it made me laugh.

I put down our stuff, got Sprog out of the carrier and settled him on the changing table for a little freshening up.

"Hooray!"

"Wait. What? Was that you? Did you say Hooray?"

He looked at me with bright eyes and a grin from ear to ear.

"Did you say Hooray? Hooray!"

He giggled and blinked.

"Hooray!!!!! I am so proud of you! Hooray!!!!!"

Oh, it was magical and thrilling and so very strange! I don't know how to explain the strangeness. I guess it was almost like Fee suddenly saying something. Or, not that, exactly. Maybe like one of the Buckingham palace guards winking at you, and shouting, "Marmalade!"

Whh h h... did he just shout Marmalade??? Wait. Did anyone else hear that?

I haven't gotten him to say it since. And J tried, when he came home and I told him the story-- no dice.

But he did.

And what a wonderful first word! So full of celebration and fun.

Of course, in the same moment I rejoiced in my son's new skill, I realized I'm going to need to start monitoring what I say around him.

I'm so glad that of all the words I sang at him today, "Hooray" is the one he tried to say first.

Hooray!

Jumper roo!

Eight months.

Hey, yourself.

So, do you want to show everyone those teeth you've sprouted? They're pretty great! In fact, some kid somewhere wrote a song about how those two teeth in particular were all he wanted for Xmas one year.

What do you say?

Not so much, huh. Rough night last night?

You're not alone, buddy.

That's all right. Want to show off your mad rugrat skillz instead?

I have a feeling it might be increasingly difficult to get non-blurry pictures of you, little man.

That's okay. We'll manage. Maybe blurry pictures will become our new style.

Or maybe we'll embrace the moody darkness of a dying battery.

Look at you. So much to do!

I'm so proud of you.

Early attempts.

Sprog is on the cusp of crawling. I'm trying to enjoy these last moments before the chaos of baby mobility changes our lives forever.

He has an idea that's really cute. He rolls onto his stomach, and arches his back so he's balanced on his tummy like a sea lion, with his chin up and his arms and legs in the air. Then he paddles them really fast, kicking his little feet and waving his arms in a modified sort of breaststroke.

He really thinks it should work. He paddles furiously, then looks around, and you can see the shock on his face that he hasn't gone anywhere.

I've tried to help out, tucking his knees under him and lifting him on to his palms. He holds the pose. Then he launches himself forward. But then he gets excited by the successful forward motion, arches up on his tum and starts paddling.

Wah waaaaahhhhhh.

Well, today he managed somehow to scootch backwards. I didn't actually see how he did it-- just that it was the only explanation for his position on the rug relative to where he'd been before I looked away to do computer stuff.

I think he might need to work on his arm strength a little bit before he can do the classic crawl-- though maybe not, given how strong he seems when he's gotten a good hold on my hair.

But I can see he's figuring it out. He's not going to be the little warm package I can tuck into a cozy corner for much longer.

My chest hurts. It could be the farewell to his youngest babyhood. Or it could be that these early attempts are killing me with cuteness.

I'll keep you posted.

Unbiased.

I'm in love with my baby. Besotted. I just composed a long list of ways he's wonderful, and realized that, well, it's unlikely anyone else will be enraptured by my enumeration of all his charming behaviors, his beautiful eyes and lashes and fingers and...

I'll spare you.

But J knows where I'm coming from.

"Thanks for making such an awesome baby."

"He really is an awesome baby."

"Yeah. He's the best baby ever. I think I can say that objectively."

"Well. I can say he's the better than any baby I've ever met. Or any baby that ever was or will be. So I guess you're right. He's the best baby ever."

"He is the best baby."

Go ahead and disagree. But I don't know how you could refute such a conclusive argument.

The blog behind the mask.

That sounds like some in-depth metablog title, doesn't it?

Nope.

I'd like to write something delving. Delvish? But that's going to have to wait a few days. I've been hired to make some Aztec(ish) masks for an out-of-town event, which seems to have some connection to the film Apocalypto-- but I'm not sure. I haven't even met the designer. It's all emails and phone calls and photos and a really quick turnaround.

Yesterday I took Sprog with me to hunt for supplies in various zones of the Garment District. Surprisingly, he seemed to enjoy it. Maybe because he got so much attention.

"Hey, babyyyy!"

"Ohhhh, it's a BAby!"

"Look at those cheeks!"

"Awww!"

Actually, I think one shopkeep gave me a lead because he liked my kid. He called another shop to see if they had the supplies I was looking for (they were appointment only.)

"It's just a block down-- shouldn't be too hard with [gestures towards Sprog with a smile.]"

It wasn't far. And the other shop had what I needed.

Babies-- so cute, and useful, too!

Babies! They're what's for dinner!

(No, not really.)

Orange mode off.

I love this little pod-outfit.

But our stroll through the sunshine to Sprog's 7-month well-baby visit has convinced me we won't be needing it again this year. And by next winter, he'll be too big for it.

Sniff.

I suppose a late April blizzard could take us all by surprise. It's happened before.

It's hard to picture, though, with all the big, cheerful daffodil-faces turning our way as we amble past.

Mr. Clean

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