Tuesday, November 26, 2013

6, 5, 4, ...

Six months. Five minutes of sleep (between the two of us, of course).  Four million kisses. Three trucks of diapers. Two really happy parents. One happy, healthy, precious Little Bugger.

She’s a supported sitter, independent pincher (with a preference for the soft tissue of the face and neck – you know, all the sensitive, soft spots, particularly under your chin which, when pressed just right, makes you see all the stars that there are out there and a few constellations yet to be discovered), and she’s, as of recent, an opinionated carrots and sweet-potatoes connoisseur.

A versatile conversationalist, she fluctuates from silent observer / attentive listener to outright the spokesperson of the opposition, regardless of the cause – all that in a drop of a wet diaper. On the record for her most famous speeches we have thus far: one confirmed “a-ku-ku” (Slavic version of the peekaboo), one “tata” (self-explanatory), and several, to our dismay very distinctive and unmistakable “nye!” (a “no!” from our neck of the woods) – We’re still fooling ourselves that it was just random and not an omen for the future…

Already politically opinionated and vocal about her strong convictions, she advocates for the release of the three sheep circling around the celestial firmament of her swing (encouraging them to claim their freedom just as soon as they start turning), “Occupy the Vertical Hold” movement (just try and hold me any other way!), always ready to manifest her defiance in a direct confrontation (“Teargas? Ha! Lean over - I’ll give you tears AND gas…”). When faced with consequences of her actions (unfortunately, we must admit to multiple instances of punitive or preventive confinement we had to impose to address her youthful indiscretions) she does, unfortunately exhibit continuous rebelliousness – she instantly agitates fellow inmates (she has been known to associate with some of the most notorious figures of the fluffy underworld of the Inside, particularly Mr. Turtle, and Mr. Bunny of the infamous Pink Gang from Detroit), instigating riots (every time the mobile stops turning) and even attempting breakouts, forcing us to increase the expenditures on security and still managing to circumvent all of our efforts (regardless of the bumper applied, given enough time she always manages to get a limb in between the bars.)

She is well read (she chooses her authors by the taste and texture of the covers, showing preference to the cardboard classics) and musically creative (she truly re-defines “singing a-a-a-a-a-long” with the nursery rhymes, and does not shy away from over-interpreting what she hears, bringing the "taking it away" to a whole new level, in a galaxy far, far away). Artistically, her early environment-conscience fabric and paint works are a very promising vanguard of the new wave of the always underappreciated infant lingerie impressionism.

She plays with all the toys, showing reckless disregard and defiance to any attempts of the system to categorize her and her abilities: presses the button intended for one year olds, tries to bite the toys intended for those two and more, listens with an utmost attention to the stories intended for those five and those closer to fifty, as long as it’s one of us reading it with her head resting on our arm;  and she weighs in on the conversations of those 30+, and that with a conviction and enthusiasm of a teenager, this Natural Born Genius of ours.

For those not familiar with the natural divisions in the natural world of children, there are two sub-species, in the essence: genius, and somebody else’s. Naturally.

She’s a normal kid. Healthy, thank God. Not too quiet and not too loud. I dare say, so far, a happy kid. How do we keep her that way?

No comments:

Post a Comment