The kid is coming along nicely.
He is crawling very well, and, (gasp!) pulling up on stuff, but me thinks walking is still a few months away. He doesn't cruise much, and on those rare times he does, he doesn't seem to get that you have to coordinate your arms and legs together, or you fall on your ass.
(Speaking of ass…."Cruising," a term which here means "using furniture to walk oneself from from one place to another," is one of those terms I had never heard before I was a parent. The term used to have a vaguely salacious association for me. But now if I read in the news that vice cops are hanging out in downtown bathrooms trying to bust guys who are cruising, it takes a moment to re-orient myself back into the grown-up world. I expect this condition will only get worse.)
Anyway, back to family programming. He's eating well, especially oatmeal. Mix any vegetable with oatmeal, he eats it. Finger foods, not so much. A cheerio here and there. How well he holds his bottle is entirely dependent on his mood. He drank a good six ounces by himself in his highchair at five pm today but by seven thirty when he was sitting next to Danielle while she was trying to eat her dinner, he mysteriously had misplaced the skill. Go figure.
He really, really, really likes Jeff. Don't get me wrong…he happily and readily accepts snuggliness, safety, food, comfort and warmth from me, but, dude, he could watch The Daddy Show all day, even when The Daddy Show consists of Jeff quietly working at his computer. I am not complaining. The cats, of course, still outrank both of us.
He has eight teeth. And he uses them, mostly to bite people, very hard. He must be watched closely in the presence of other babies because of this.
He babbles, mightily and incoherently. He may be shaking his head "no" when he's done eating. It's happening a lot, and I can't tell if it's a coincidence, except it keeps happening, so I've decided to take him at his word. When he shakes his head no, I stop feeding him. But back to the babbling. He speaks a wide variety of syllables and has for months. "Dada," unsurprisingly, is a favorite. There might be an increasing correlation between his using "Ma" more when I'm holding him and when he wants milk. Or there might be a mom named Jayne who really wishes her son could talk. Or a little of both. Your call.
He does not wave. If you wave at him in a desperate attempt to get him to wave back, he'll stop what he's doing and look at you with concern, as if you might be having a personal problem, or a seizure. But he does not wave back.
But what he does do is crawl underneath the drapes and sit, giggling hysterically, until you engage him in a good game of peekaboo. Here is a twenty second example. Excuse my inane babbling. Talking to a baby in baby talk is an ancient impulse and there's really nothing I can do about it:
As you can see, so far he appears to have gotten every recessive gene we had. A woman in Starbucks yesterday asked me if he was Norwegian.
Over at Danielle's blog, there is a long but adorable series of montages documenting the evolution of Kurt from worthless but cute newborn to baby torpedo of strength. If you are a fan, I highly recommend it. But I am biased.