he has four teeth now (two on bottom, two on top). he engages in great fits of laughter. at times, i am convinced he continues to peal out of sorrow and a longing for us to believe we are entertaining and not the least bit pitiful in our endeavours to generate more laughing.
he has discovered the athletic activity of jumping. or, perhaps more appropriate to his level of leaving the surface on which he stands, bouncing.
he thinks quickly thrusting his pink ugly doll up above his face and squealing "Peaco!" is mind-numbingly hilarious. he thinks quickly thrusting one of the orange couch pillows up above his face and squealing "Peaco!" is almost as mind-numbingly hilarious.
he giggles at ttyki's mightiest of roars designed to fend off man and beast.
he commences with psychotic sound bubbles when he senses the imminent approach of feeding time via baby sign language and engaging of the boppy around his legs.
he gets tired very easily.
he plays this game where he tries to get his teeth to firmly make contact with bits of my flesh. i play this game where i try to prevent his teeth from firmly making contact with bits of my flesh.
he just caterwauled into the shoulder of my shirt because he lay prone for two seconds too long. then he tried to chew a hole in the shoulder of my shirt.
lifting him into the air over and over frequently makes him smile his silent, open-mouthed, barely-toothed smile. lifting him into the air over and over with a kiss on the downward stroke always makes him smile. and sometimes squeal.
he has become very adept at playing the role of Mr. Wiggles. it requires him to hyperventilate and stick his limbs out shakily until i'm convinced he's no longer playing and has self-induced a seizure-lik event and made me wonder why we didn't agree on a safe word before commencing the latest round of Mr. Wiggles.