Last October, I wrote about Oliver's first connections of cause and effect. It happened in a $5 garage sale bouncy seat with a bubbling-water function that was louder than the tinny music it played. He kicked, and when he saw the plastic toys dance, his face lit up. And he did it again, and again, kicking with escalating force, until he nearly slid off.
Thought process today: "Why, I remember this bouncy seat. Judging by its small nature and my ever-growing body structure, I decipher that I can no longer safely, nor enjoyably, sit in it. I think I will grab it instead, give its plastic structure a good shake or two, and assess the stability of the hardware of which it is composed."
This was him then:
His through process was probably something like: "Kick: swinging toys! Kick: Swinging toys! Weeee!"
Today, he crawled through our upstairs loft area to discover piles of things soon to make the journey to the basement, things seasonal and outgrown. He saw the bouncy seat, which he has most definitely outgrown; and one could argue that it is seasonal, from one baby stage flying-by to the next.
Thought process today: "Why, I remember this bouncy seat. Judging by its small nature and my ever-growing body structure, I decipher that I can no longer safely, nor enjoyably, sit in it. I think I will grab it instead, give its plastic structure a good shake or two, and assess the stability of the hardware of which it is composed."The infant play gym is also going down to the basement. This is where he had his first smiles, ogling at the reflection in the fish-mirror, swatting at the octupus.
Today he looks at its bendable arches and tries to beat his record number of pull-ups from the day before.
Oliver is 11 months old this week. He'll be passing through yet another season on July 2nd, smashing his face into a cupcake to commemorate one year of life on this earth. And yet it seems that every day that passes is another stage, another season, another moment to stop and shake my head in awe of my kid, desperate for time to pass slower. In a matter of a few days, it will seem, Oliver will ask to borrow my car keys. On that day, I will walk to that corner of the basement and pull out a tattered baby blanket or two, hold it to my cheek, and then go upstairs to tell him that he can't have the keys, but that he's welcome to ask again in a few days.
He is going to want to borrow your keys MANY times! For awhile though, it's just because they are a cool percussion toy, and not the tools to freedom and independence via the car.
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