From the vantage point of his health, mine, and the steamy heat of August, that's all almost not stressful to remember.
To celebrate the occasion of his half-year mark, G decided to learn to crawl this week. Oh, he's been rolling over sideways across whole rooms for a while now. And he's been doing the scootch-a-tiny-left, reverse, schootch-a-tiny-right maneuver that looks like infant driver's ed parallel parking lessons. But then three days ago he finally decided to lift his belly off of the ground. Only, he took his knees along for the ride. So he looked like a beginner yoga practicioner with poor downward dog form (tuck your head!) or a beefhead frat boy showing off in a push-ups competition, but he still hadn't perfected a "typical" crawling formation.
But really now, why go with typical?
He's been rearing his entire body up, and then slamming down in a forward motion. He looks like an inchworm, if inchworms practiced sumo body slams. His babyfat backrolls quiver in the aftershocks. Or perhaps he looks like he's launching, only to crash spectacularly again. His politely euphemistic teacher says he's trying to fly instead of crawl. Sometimes I think he looks like he's practicing the butterfly swim stroke. He lunges deep to gather speed. He soars high into the air. He throws his arms behind him.
He faceplants. Again.
And smiles with pride.
He's a couple inches closer now.
I'm not going to lie; it's pretty awesome. I don't know why he hasn't thought to use those arms for forward progress yet. Most kids who commando crawl use their wrists; he's using his chin and nipples.
So if his face is looking a little chafed, please don't stare. He's a man on the move, and that, apparently, is what he's decided is important.