Rock, Rock, Till You Drop

My little one,

You have not made up your mind about walking yet. In theory, you think it is a great idea, adding to your mobility and ability to get to and empty the rubbermaid cabinet more quickly, but in practice, you do not think it's everything big people make it out to be. There is a big advantage to your monkey-scoot, you reason, as it doesn't involve the intricate balance of moving your feet synchronously as you try not to fall down. No matter, you'll be there soon enough.

What you do love, however, is climbing into the big, wooden, grown-up rocking chair in the living room and rocking furiously as if it will get you to Christmas quicker.

This all started last Saturday, when it was hot in San Francisco, which nearly never happens in July, and I had you stripped down to a diaper mid-day instead of the usual mid-summer snowsuit.

You monkey-scooted over to the rocking chair, and pausing only momentarily to see if I was really watching you (I was), grabbed onto the arm of the chair, swung one leg up onto the seat, then hauled up your tummy, and yes, to be certain, you were on the rocking chair. You sat down as if you'd done this a million times, leaned forward, and started rocking back and forth, laughing all the way.

I helped you get down that first time, and once earlier today when you though you should scoot your behind to the edge of the chair and jump down, instead of coming off the chair backwards like some kind of sane baby (that must be an oxymoron). As you were about to belly-flop onto the hardwood floor I caught you, spiderman-like a centimeter from the floor. You cried anyway, perhaps because you were looking forward to the belly flop and I, in my haste to save you, ruined a wonderful belly flop.

You mount the rocking chair at least three times a day, from what I can see, and I watch, laugh, and think what a big girl you're becoming...

All my love,
Now and forever,
Mamama