Today we went to the zoo. The wind was before us and between us and around our legs and twisting wind mustaches over our faces and curling wind tendrils of hair behind our ears--but we persevered. The bears were asleep today but the leopard was not. He sat on a rock in the sun and stared directly at the children on the other side of the glass. There was a rock ledge in front of the glass and so I let you bounce there and the leopard saw you bouncing. He watched you carefully. And every so often he would twitch; I swear I am not exaggerating when I say that I could see the reflex rise up in his body (the reflex to pounce, to prey, to continue forth with his existence in the way leopards should), and he would twitch and then continue staring.
Later, we went to Menards. We bought a battery for the smoke alarm and safety locks for the cabinets. The irony was lost on me. Safety is always relative.
I am writing to you again today, not because something of particular import occurred, but because you are moments away, you are so close, you are just on the cusp of crawling. Tonight, as Daddy and I ate frozen pizza, you practiced on the carpet near the dining room table. Belly to hands and knees and then sometimes up onto your tippy-toes in a sort of Downward Dog Yoga position and then tonight you moved one arm and then one knee and then collapsed.
The cheers Daddy and I internalize at these moments--so as not to frighten you or interrupt your learning--are outrageously loud. We do arm pumps in the air and silent high fives and open our mouths wide enough to catch small hummingbirds inside.
We are rooting for you, as we always will, every step (or half-step) of the way.
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