Couch Mechanic

To the untrained eye, this might be one of those photographs that begs the question, What's going on in that little brain? This strange nonverbal imagination, this mysterious impenetrable intelligence: what new bafflement is it going to cook up next? The world is wide open, the toys are spread out on the rug, the autumn light is streaming in the window. The paths are clear in every direction.

But the trained eye knows exactly what those mental cogs are turning toward: the seven-inch clearance between the floor and the bottom of the sofa. The feet-first approach, the gentle head duck, the seemingly impossible flip from tummy to back once he's underneath: it's the parallel parking test of the infant realm, only in three dimensions. Enjoy. We do.

I ♥ New Furniture

The boy who communes with the undersides of our living-room furniture and is just discovering the amusement of peek-a-boo hit the exacta this weekend when his parents brought home a new ottoman with a concealed storage cavity.

Hope he likes metal bars, too; the child gates also went up yesterday. If we really want to tease him, maybe we can plant him across the barrier from the dinner fork he's always trying to knick from the edge of my dinner plate. The tines could perhaps be stuck into an alluring tumbleweed of knotted electrical wires.

Nothing says "come hither" to the six-month-old imagination like 120 volts of alternating current running through a thin sheath of plastic that fits perfectly in the mouth.

Halloween is upon us. Sadly, the chicken suit sold out. On the plus side, at least this way Noah will get to retain his dignity. A giant rooster's comb made out of floppy red felt may not be the last word in childhood humiliation (the last word in childhood humiliation, of course, is two words: "knee socks"), but it's got to be pretty darn close to the period.

All Boy

Since the moment of his arrival in the world, Noah has been unmistakably boyish. I still remember pushing him around the post-partum floor in his little hospital bassinet and some other newborn's grandfather remarking, "He looks like a boy." True then, and even more true now. And this boy quality is way more than skin deep. Witness his obvious disdain for Mama tying his hood with a bow.
Or his affection for spilling blocks on the floor and banging his toy stacking rings.
And then there's his enjoyment for meal times, especially if meat and potatoes are on the menu.
Of course, there are a few things the pictures cannot capture: the dedication with which he tried day after day, like a tiny couch mechanic, to get himself fully underneath the sofa in the living room. Getting under the dining chairs proved an easier, but clearly very gratifying, feat.
Finally, we have the several-times-daily drama of diaper changing. Last week he was fascinated with the light that stands next to his changing station and nearly toppled the whole thing over onto himself. This week he is just too busy to wait for a new diaper to be fastened to his bottom. Cool air on the bum must feel like freedom because no sooner is his soiled diaper removed but he is flipping over, up on all fours and trying to crawl off the changing pad. That is, unless he reaches down and finds that epicenter of all boyness. Then I've got a shot at him lying relatively still while I change him. Then we all wash our hands.

The Little Emperor in Autumn

The mercury touched the 40s this weekend, and we had to tell Noah that in addition to fleece pants, socks, and a wool cap, we'd be stuffing his arms into puffy jackets as well.


You've got to give it to him: the kid can do melancholy. Then we added the bits about giant piles of leaves to roll around in, snow days, and reminded him that even though we're halfway through October, the Phillies are somehow still playing baseball games.

In Training

Noah hit the six month mark on October 7th, and turned those big indeterminately colored eyes up at us, as if to say "enough fooling around." There is no doubt that Noah is in training. We think he may have adopted his dad's goal of being able to dunk until he is 40, given the serious bouncing he does in his Jumperoo. His shorter term goal, however, is clearly to crawl before he cuts a single tooth. And, like his age and gravity-defying Dada, he is going after this motor milestone with singular focus and a cross-training strategy. See him roll. See him turn. See him scoot backwards on the slippery hardwood floor. Watch him do his baby sun salutations. (Is there a gene for yoga prowess?)

Thankfully, the little man also knows how to unwind. After a long day of practice he likes to kick back in his jammies, grab a stuffed animal pal and make faces at the old folks.