Hot and humid. When I kissed Daddy's jawbone this afternoon it tasted like salt. We spent an hour wandering around Target today, enjoying the A.C. and avoiding grading. We loaded up on organic baby food and big tupperware bins to store all the clothes I've bought for you at garage sales. It's only 7:30pm but I feel limp, feel like I should be drinking a mint julep and staring our at the wide expanse of a field of cotton. I feel southern. I feel made up of words like bayou and molasses and gumption.
I am pleased to report that you have mastered "go boom." You adore attempting to pull yourself up on any surface (couch, ottoman, dishwasher, wall, exersaucer, etc.) with somewhat limited success. The wall, for instance, has not proven to be hospitable.
The next venture seems to be your hands. When you get excited, you do a kind of clapping motion. This excites us. Then, we'll say "Thisbe, clap, clap!" and you'll look at us blankly. As I spooned chicken-vegetable puree into your mouth this evening, I caught you staring at your hand as though it didn't belong to you. There were your fingers, clutching into a fist and then releasing. Clutch, release, clutch, release--like someone was drawing your blood. It's the motion you'll use to wave "bye-bye" so of course, as soon as you started doing this, Daddy and I started waving "bye-bye." We did this through most of dinner. This is because we are exceptionally sophisticated people. Exceptionally.
(Note: the video below is a rare exception. The fact that you are clapping has NOTHING to do with the fact that I am asking you to clap. It is a rare coincidence that I managed to capture on video in case I need bragging rights later. You know, in a parent bragging competition.)
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