Blue skies today. Frost sheening the windshield so that for the first time this year I drive down Second Street hunched over, peering through the small portion of defrosted window, too impatient to wait for it to all come clean.
Last night we ate soup with Grete and Greg and Carsten. Carste is a tornado of boy energy. He dumped out Playmobil figures (a Roman soldier, two cats the size of dimes, an alligator from the Ark) from a drawstring pouch onto the carpet, he lined up all of Peder's wooden boats along the coffee table, he pulled at Luxy's ears, he ate the vanilla ice cream and then pouted at the apple pie. We love him very much.
You slept in your crib through all of dinner. Although we swaddle you before sleep, you always manage to worm your way down underneath whatever blanket we place on top of you. In the morning, your skin was cool, milk crust below your lower lip. You awoke alert and ready to smile. You like to be carried outward now, your back pressed against my chest, my arm around your waist, hand holding you at the diapered place between your legs.
You are in a stage where your growth is what I would call "the same, but more." Same smile, but many more of them. Head still lifted off the ground during tummy time, but higher and for longer periods of time. Same coos and gurgles, but with more frequency and greater variety. Same wide blue eyes, but more knowledge and love behind them. That sounds cliche, I know, but I swear that when you smile at me lately you are actually trying to communicate affection for me. Something about the glimmer and dash of your pupils. It's there, I swear.
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