dance monkey

These days we live to serve. He is, for the most part, a reasonable (albeit demanding) master. Our days and nights comprise of attending to his wants and his needs. There have only been a handful (that's on one hand, thank you) of meltdowns on my part and he's still got all his fingers and toes.


It seems impossible now that one day he won't need us this much. That one day he'll let me know in no uncertain terms that i'm smothering him and could i just hand over the keys, please. How can he drive when he's only 23 inches long? i may be getting ahead of myself.

For now the key may be... to not overthink things. Tall order. Just smile at his strangely triangular feet with the superlong toes. (clawtoe the second) Just laugh when his father offers to teach him how to pick things up with his feet (a la his aunt gail). He may grow out of it and not need special shoes.

The sleepness nights will be funny someday. The strange distinctive cries will then be a fond memory instead of an unrelenting alarm clock. I already miss some of his unusual expressions. His exagerated sideways bird face when he's hungry (mom, you know the one) is now a thing of the past. (Although ben can do a pretty good imitation.) We have pictures of his zoolander lip purse (which I'd post if ben weren't holding all the new pictures hostage on his computer.)
We both can do pretty good impressions of his seriously displeased and precious-me faces.

Ben's now taken to copying his grunting back to him "to speak his language". Personally I don't think it's wise to sass the master. Being the non-milk-machine servent of the unit, I'm pretty sure he's on thin ice.

On the whole, life is good. A truce has been negotiated with our skateboard punk backyard neighbor to curtail the ramp use to nonhomicidal-inspiring levels. Signing field trip permission slips from the big house may yet not come to pass.


And yes Geraldine, I'm glad I finally got off my butt and did this. Thank you for bugging me about it.