Besides, the clouds in the sky are doing a fine job of that right now, as we roar into monsoon, our fifth season. The cacti are puffed up, filled with water, and the crepe myrtle refuses to stop blooming. All of that is wonderful, but it pales in comparison to the joy I take in watching my girls toss bags of oatmeal onto the kitchen floor.
Her iPad was on the table, angled down to their play space on the floor, and I laughed along with them as the baby took the packets out of the box and flung them behind herself. She has my daughter trained well; the bring-it-here-wench was right there when she was needed. FlapJilly was never without more ammunition.
They substituted for maracas, too. One handed, two handed, then tossed on the floor. Cue the giggles.
She took a step and a half towards the couch, but the yes-she-is-just-about-walking video I received after our call confirms that she's capable of much more than that. It's the whole separation thing; she pushes her elephant-on-wheels away from mommy, cruises to the rump end and pushes it back across the floor, stopping decisively and abruptly at her maternal unit's lap, into which she dumps herself, rather unceremoniously.
I can go away by myself, it's true. Just be here when I get back.We've all had moments like that, haven't we?
Watching her grow and learn is an awe inspiring activity. She's figuring out that she has control over inanimate objects. The sliding glass door is a percussion instrument, one she plays loudly and passionately and with both hands off and then on again, but not leaning for support.
She is so ready to walk on her own.
Thomas the Wonder Dog didn't respond to her requests that he rejoin her in the living room, so we toured the coffee table in the family room, instead. Little Cuter was a trooper, kneeling her way around and around the rectangle, pushing the computer so that FlapJilly and I could continue to look into one another's eyes. We were having a great time; she was having trouble navigating small spaces not designed for anyone larger than 27 pounds.
By that time, we'd talked and laughed and tossed foodstuffs for nearly an hour. My plans for a well reasoned screed (is that an oxymoron?) were foiled by those 27 pounds. Those plans will be revisited tomorrow. For now, I'm going to look at pictures and dream of those arms around my neck.
Yummmy. Yummmy. Yummmy.