Wishful Thinking

I can't help myself. I am supposed to be working, but it is to much fun to crawl around on the floor with Tom, and have him grin at me with his four big teeth in a wide-open smile. I wish I had a camera with me so you could see it, too.

This afternoon he has been investigating the palate and digestibility of common office paper. He has carefully examined all of the legs of the furniture for moving parts.

He is testing his vocal abilities, yelling ba-ma-bam-pa over and over as he scoots around the floor. He pauses, and slurps his hand, alternately blowing rasberries and sucking up his own spit.

He pulls himself around the floor Ursula-style, dragging his feet behind him. He hasn't quite figured out the mechanics of hand-and-knee crawling. But man, he's efficient. And fast.

This morning, he attacked the dishwasher while it was open, pulling up on the door and trying to crawl in to the dish rack. When I opened the refrigerator, he was right there, ready to pull as many items out of the door as possible before I shut it again.

He views the dog as Mount Everest, and makes several attempts to scale him each day, usually employing teeth and sharp little fingers. To Coltrane's credit, he just lays there and rolls his eyes while "the puppy" climbs all over him.

I'm sure every mother feels this way, but he is so perfect he takes my breath away.