An important concept has forced its way into our life: The Cone of Baby. Sam has grown to the point where she not only can grab things, but she WILL grab things –anything– within her reach. And some things that you’d swear were NOT within her reach.
For example, last night we were out at dinner and Ger put Sam on her lap right as the waitress set our food down. In about half a second Sam was waiving around a tiny fist full of pasta like it was a limp flag, spattering the whole table and two ladies an aisle over with cream sauce. During the rest of the meal Sam made similar attempts to apprehend salt and pepper shakers, straws, drinks, knives, forks, the beer and wine list, napkins, bread, salad dressing, coasters, the check, my credit card (oh portent of things to come…) and two separate plates. So in response Ger and I seem to be developing an unconscious cognizence about The Cone of Baby and what objects reside within that Cone at all times. So when a steak knife, a spraycan of pesticide, or a clump of cat feces enters it, we’re quicker than Sam is. Usually.
And now, as an interlude, pictures. The update continues below.
The other day I was up in the office while Ger was feeding Sam down in the dining room. After a few minutes I heard the following slightly ribald song drift up from the stairs:
Oh come drink juice with me
I don’t give a hoot ’bout any old coot
That won’t drink juice with me.
So raise up that golden goblet
With the Sigma Nu upon it
And we’ll all have another round of juice
Sam, who has just started slurping down juice, didn’t really need encouragement in the form of a modified college drinking song, but she loved it anyway. So now we sing it pretty much every time we offer her the sippy cup. I just fear that eighteen years from now Sam is going to go to college and go through sorority rush, during which they’ll sing the original version of the song. Sam will blink in confusion and ask why in the world they’re singing “the juice song,” which will earn her a few rolled eyes and a blackball from that bitch Tiffany who has just had it out for her since freshman orientation. These are the kinds of things I worry about.
It’ll probably be just as good. Sororities and fraternities are bad news that Sam can probably do without. They’re just full of hot party girls drunk on freedom and ready to nab some equally clueless fraternity dude with a six pack of beer and a head full of misconceptions.
…Just like when her mom met her dad.