Sam’s Story: Week 82

Sam has learned the joys of bellowing. Not screaming, shrieking, or shouting, but bellowing. Early one morning Ger and I were dozing in bed when we were suddenly awakened by a very distinct and surprisingly booming “MAMMA!” from Sam’s crib. And it wasn’t a one-shot kind of thing, as she repeated it (along with “DADDA!”) throughout the day. That night I taught Sam how to play tag by chasing her until I had her cornered, then turning around and running from her until she cornered me. She bellowed the whole time, in both directions. After she wore me out and I lay down on the carpet to catch my breath, she kept running all over the house, bellowing all the way.

What’s with all the bellowing I’ll never know. I just suppose that it, like all the other inexplicable things she does are enjoyed out of sheer novelty. Come to think of it, such a life inhabiting the extreme polar opposite of jadedness must be pretty dang cool. You and I are world-weary, civilized, and composed. Sam is standing in buckets, yelling at nothing in particular, and having the time of her (so far) short life. Excuse me while I join her for a while.

Okay, I’m back. Pictures!

Seems like we’re taking fewer and fewer pictures of Sam lately, and I’m not sure why. She’s more active than ever, constantly doing things that I’d love to catch on film. But I think the problem is that she does them so spontaneously and so quickly before moving on to something else that it’s hard to catch them at the right second. For example, one instant she’s playing with a pink pig puppet on her arm, but by the time I whip out the camera, turn it on, and focus, all I get is this.

Still, as Sam’s activity level has increased, so has the need to keep an eye on her and curb certain behaviors like stabbing the cat. I often worry about how well I’ll do when the parental guidance I’ll have to dole out is more of the gray variety, like scooping out all the chocolate from the Neapolitan ice cream while leaving the black and white stuff behind. It probably doesn’t help that I’m currently reading To Kill a Mockingbird and gradually realizing that I’ll never ever be as absurdly good a parent as Atticus Finch is. I guess I can comfort myself with the knowledge that those were different times and that Gregory Peck probably never tried to talk a drunk, pregnant, teenage girl out of robbing a convenience store. You know, because it was novel.