Nine in, nine out

Today AM has reached that dividing line; he's spent more time out than in.

(I'm not quite sure where the line should be, and the 40-week pregnancy is technically 38 weeks, but "nine months old" seems poetic.)

I love that he has grown and changed so much. He race-crawls down the hall to Miss M's room to check out what she's doing. She is his constant object of fascination--a muse of sorts. She can make him smile more easily than anyone, but will probably be a source of danger in the immediate future; in the past couple of weeks I've caught her trying to pick him up off the floor and nearly attempting to ride him like a horse. (Ack!)

He loves Cheerios, whole peas, carrot and pasta pieces; if he can't pick it up with his fingers rake it into his palm, he isn't interested.

One of his favorite things in the world is taking a bath, from just watching the water go into the tub--he pulls up on the bathtub, pounding it with his open palms, and gurgles excitedly--to sitting in there with Miss M. After a few minutes of splashing he tries to pull himself up on the slippery sides; then it gets a little hairy for me, but you can't deny him the pleasure.

But for all the growing, he is still a baby. He's my baby, who cries if I leave the room at the wrong moment, who fusses when he is tired, who wakes if I move too suddenly from my bed in the middle of the night. Luckily, he is easily soothed, by the default--nursing--or just laying with his head tucked under my chin, softly slurping on his right thumb as we cuddle under a fleece blanket.

I have easy pregnancies, but as cool and alien as it is to feel a person (a person!) growing inside you and jousting with your organs, it just doesn't compare to watching that little person developing on the outside. And quietly breathing on your chest, hair askew, fingers curled, heavy with life.