“One day, that kid is going to start talking… and when she does, she’s going to give an entire dissertation.”
That’s what a lot of people say about you, RR. You are the great observer. We even have a name for it – your “new experiences” face. Eyes wide. Bottom lip in a subtle pout. You scan everything in great, methodical detail. You are, perhaps, an old soul.
This past month, we’ve tested your patience with a variety of visitors, and, my dear, you passed with flying colors. Well, so far. While you’re still hesitant to nestle in the arms of anyone but me or your mama, you’re at least not outwardly crying and wailing at people anymore as soon as you realize that you don’t recognize them. My, how far we’ve come.
We even went to a restaurant with two friends. I KNOW. RR, you’ve only been to three enclosed restaurants in your entire existence. You melted down twice out of those three times, and you slept through the other. Nevertheless, we vowed to never return. Of course, we didn’t TELL these two friends about our… well, inexperience? We crossed our fingers and gave each other the “Do you think she’ll embarrass us TOO badly?” faces. You’re too big (and active) to sit in your car seat while we eat, and, as we found out, you’re too tiny to sit in a restaurant high chair. As in, we sat you down, mashed down a blanket behind you to keep you from falling out, but we didn’t account for the fact that you were nose-level with the table. You were a trooper, though – sitting, sliding about, slouching, bonking your nose on the table, getting subsequently soothed with the pacifier, rinse and repeat. I’m afraid you might be 14 years old the next time we take you out.
Speaking of eating… child, a tooth would be nice. Just one. Maybe one day.
The one new experience we had this month that DIDN’T get the new experiences face was our mile and 1/2 hike at a local nature preserve. I strapped you onto my front using our baby carrier pack, and we trekked along streams, brush, and trees on the unpaved and rather hilly, treacherous, and unpredictable paths. You chatted and squealed and made all sorts of delighted noises. We can dip you under the water, sure, with no expression… but bounce you along in the woods, and you’re a hooligan.
You also don’t put anything in your mouth. Unless it’s some fingers crooked in one side during one of your thoughtful moments. Thoughtful, RR. You are that. Pensive. Sincere. Kind. No, I’m not talking about Winston Churchill, but my how you two would get along. Why put that Mum-Mum in your mouth when you can scratch it with your finger over and over, while philosophizing: “What is a Mum-Mum?” You are a great thinker.
Which is why other children knock you down and take your toys. It’s why the little girl in your swim class crawls over to you and bonks you on the head with her travel-sized shampoo bottle, and you don’t stop her. Nor do you complain after. You’re too busy examining the world around you to notice that you’re being bludgeoned by your friends. Or, you’re lazy. That’s another theory all together, I suppose.