The little guy’s stomach was gurgling last night. It must have sounded like a quack to him because he very seriously informed me that there was a duck in his shirt.
BoBeans has perfected his fake/forced cry. I picked up the baby the other night because she was fussy; this upset my son so he started with the waterworks. The poor kid just wanted some undivided mommy attention. At any rate, the baby thought that he was playing with her. Every time he would open his mouth to renew his wail she, in her naiveté, would mistake it for a laugh and would chuckle and squeal in return. The little Cheekers was having a ball, but my son grew very offended before attempting to drop the charade completely when he saw it wasn’t working. In an attempt to make up the baby reached for her brother’s head to stroke it; unfortunately she forgot herself and grabbed a tiny fistful of his hair. Thus the crying commenced again, a little more in earnest this time. More shrieking laughter; more forced tears.
The baby received a brand new toy for Christmas from a dear friend and it was so neat to watch them play with it together. Of course a six month old is only so coordinated: she would push it off of the tray on her walker and my son had to keep picking it up. My daughter makes this happy face where she scrunches her nose up and exhales through it in a sort of snort; the two of them “talked” back and forth in this snorting language, she dropped the toy, he picked it up, and they had a grand old time together smashing and exploring and organizing the monkeys in their plastic green grass hut.
Our family belongs to the genus of people that cannot help but resort to baby-talk when within two miles of a baby. Even the men do it. That includes my son. It is with a happy smile that I watch my little gentleman crouch down to his sister’s level and check on her with his own special brand of toddler baby talk, “Watcha doin’?” A baby talking baby-talk; if that’s not something to smile about, I don’t know what is.
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