Today you took five steps in a row before bending neatly at the waist and returning to your signature bear crawl. You looked at me nonchalantly when I squealed your name, then went back to playing. It's no big thing, Mom, was the general sense I got from you.
You also ate grapes for the first time today, cut painstakingly into fourths with the plastic McDonalds fork which was given to me along with my fruit and walnut salad. You scarfed them down, exhibiting a more deft pincer grasp than I remembered you having the last time I checked.
You are growing up in leaps and bounds, little man. Thank goodness your babyhood still pokes its head out every now and then. Like today, when you fell asleep in your carseat on the way to the grocery store. I was loathe to wake you from one your increasingly infrequent naps, so I carried you carefully into the store, then toted your drooling self around on my shoulder until I got to the baby aisle, where I padded the child seat of the cart with soft receiving blankets and tucked you in. You looked like a kind of Baby Jesus, nestled snugly in your modern day manger, your cheeks flushed with sleep and your thumb hanging loosely from your pursed lips.
I hope you know that a part of me will always see you this way, even if you get bigger and smarter than me (and I hope you do.) I will always remember the way your face looks, crinkled with glee as I tickle your cheeks with my hair. I will always remember the smell of your head. I'll remember, no doubt with longing, the way I sometimes hold you close when I'm feeling sad, just for the reassuring pleasure of inhaling that achingly sweet scent.