He perches on me like a koala hugging a tree, his chubby legs neatly tucked in, head constantly swiveling to see what’s going on. There’s always something going on, even if it’s just the elevator buttons lighting up.
He places two fingers delicately into his mouth and chews, staring balefully at new faces and objects, before slow blinking and turning away, like a too-cool teenager chewing gum. Except with more drool. Loads more drool.
His hands are still soft and perfectly smooth. He desperately stretches them towards leaves, water bottles, paper, and our faces, patting and grabbing and swiping. There are many things that he wants to do now, but his body is clumsy, heavy, ill-coordinated. Sometimes he rocks on his back, confused and tense, like an overturned cockroach, not sure if he should roll over. His mind is at odds with his body, and I can’t help but think that 5 months is as frustrating as it is an exciting time for him.
He perks up immediately and smiles when I sing the same songs and repeat the same Psalms, for the umpteenth time. The joy is in the repetition. Those opening bars, those lyrical words, are anchors of comfort for him. He has no idea what You Are My Sunshine means, but then maybe he does.