You've all but given up pureed foods. You want Israeli couscous and rice and hamburger crumbles and diced chicken or skirt steak. You love crawling around with a big hunk of bread clutched in your fist. You'll eat an entire pint of halved blueberries (and then poop purple). You dig the green peas and chickpeas and black beans -- anything you can feed yourself. You've hit that stage where you want to wrest control of an incoming spoon. It's maddening (but adorable, too).
You're doing a lot of big baby things. We folded up the activity mat because you'll no longer stay on it. We've started locking baby gates again because guess who's figured out how to climb the stairs? We're watching your infancy melt away at a steady pace. I suspect you'll be quite a get-into-things toddler.
There's a melancholy to that, to watching the baby season pass by. Your baby season is our last baby season, and we won't be pulling that activity mat out ever again. I won't make any more baby food. You're all about the chunks, baby, both in your degustation and in your thighs.
(Yum, fatso baby thighs. Those still seem to be growing at an impressive pace.)
It's wonderful to watch you grow at your very own pace, of course, and it's just as wonderful to look ahead - finally - past the baby season. You know I'm dreaming of the day that we no longer need baby gates at all, and we can patch the holes they made in the wall by way of ripping down the hallway wallpaper first. Glory be to your growth, and design improvement.
Love you, little man.
(Please sleep through the night.)