Bear Belly

It seems important, somehow, to mention that you are now rolling over in your crib, back to front. You are now sleeping on your belly. You are now rotating 180 degrees and flipping yourself over like a little blueberry pancake. We are, of course, impressed.

You are also trying to crawl. You can almost lift your belly off the ground. You attempt this move often, a sort of yoga cobra position, but then give up and relax back onto your chest, lifting all four limbs of the ground and wobbling back and forth ridiculously. After dinner, Daddy crawled around the living room while you did this. He was trying to set a good example. Luxy was perturbed.

Today we went to the zoo with Grandma. You touched the stiff neck hair of a goat and watched baby piglets dig their snouts into straw. The best part was the grizzly bears. We watched one swim for quite awhile, watched his huge legs and arms churn the water, his long hair swirling. He never put his ears below the water, just his snout. I lifted you up and down so you could see above the water line and below it. He was an awesome and terrifying force. And at one moment, his snout was inches from your rosy round cheeks; he was looking at you, through you. All I could think of was the glass collapsing. They do this on purpose, I'm sure. The zoo does, I mean. They are such powerful creatures that somehow no cage, no aquatic tank, no moat ever seems entirely reliable. And it is the sliver of fear that makes things interesting, that made this experience today precious and beautiful. This sounds sentimental, but I keep replaying him in my head: legs churning the water, paw pressed against the glass, claws close enough for me to count. A part of me felt like an irresponsible parent, holding you so close to danger. A part of me thrilled at that.