She is becoming like a real person now. She recently noticed her hands, and has gone a bit nutty in the discovery. My hands! My hands! She sucks and slobbers on them with a sort of fierce joy that makes me look at my own in a new light.
And her hands have discovered each other. They clasp together desperately like long-lost lovers. I think to myself, big day in neural development here. There’s something about crossing the midline that seems like a landmark. The two halves of her brain have discovered each other. Next she’ll be doing higher order math.
She actually sees me now. It’s still a bit startling, the moment her roving eyes fix on mine. She gazes at me like I’m Jesus Christ. I smile, and she breaks out into this huge grin. Works every time—in the bath, in a crowded room, in the dark at night after a feed.
Speaking of baths, she’s finally admitted that she likes them. It’s as if one day she decided to give up the pretense, stopped quietly gripping her bath cloth in surly concentration, and just let all loose. She slaps the water, kicks her feet, actually chuckles, real chuckles that shake her shoulders. Whenever it looks like I might be getting ready to get her out she wriggles and splashes some more.
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