First, Rex rolled over in his crib. Not the first time he's rolled over, to be sure, but the first time I went in after his nap and saw him with his feet up on the bumper. Staring at the ceiling, just contemplating his life. He may as well have been smoking a cigar.
Then, Veronica rode her bike all the way to the fire station. It was only six blocks, but it was a big deal. She told the fireman she'd been riding for miles and miles and needed something cold to drink. He believed every word. Then she asked him why he was so dirty. Oh, my god.
After the fire house we stopped at the grocery store. We still had Veronica's bike, but no lock, so I let her ride her bike inside. She was very respectful of the other shoppers, even as she zoomed up and down the aisles and narrowly missed knocking over a huge display of glass vodka bottles. No one, including several employees and a store manager, even said boo to me about it because Veronica was so charming. I have a feeling my daughter is going to go through life this way, getting away with things that are normal for her but unorthodox for other folks. Her idea of normal is way off the radar for most regular people. She chose a tiny pumpkin to bring home and insisted on carrying it while she rode her bike.
When we got home I fed Rex, and he blew his first raspberry while nursing, right onto my boob. I actually thought he'd farted, but it came from the wrong end, and then I saw him do it again. He was doing it deliberately. Then, another first: a huge belly laugh from my baby. He's been chuckling for months but this was his first real all-out, hysterical, laughter at something he'd done. Now all he wants do to is blow raspberries and he's going around looking like he has a big secret, like he owns the place. His eyes are full of merry mischief.
After the raspberry incident I went into the kitchen, where I found my daughter calmly, deliberately dissecting her mini-pumpkin with a steak knife. She told me earlier she was going to carve it before Halloween, so there you go. She was holding the knife with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel, and there were tiny, even cuts in the pumpkin. She innocently looked up and said, "I got the knife from the wooden block, and I'm telling you the truth, just like Lincoln and the cherry tree. But I didn't realize it was wrong to take the knife, so you shouldn't be mad."
Well. I wasn't mad, and didn't even correct her about the Lincoln thing. I just quietly removed the knife from her three-and-three-quarter year-old hand, and made a mental note to put the knives out of reach. Then again, they were out of reach before and she got to them anyway, so I think I might just teach her how to use them properly. It seems like she already knows how. But if I did that, I'm sure I'd have to teach her how to properly use matches, and then the creme brulee torch. Where would it end?
I guess we are in for a lot of firsts around here.
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