Here we are, fifteen months, three haircuts and eleven teeth into Life.
This month, Clive decided he was officially Too Old to have Mama feed him his oatmeal, and that he needed to do it himself.
He’s not too bad at it.
He’s finally become proficient and confident about pulling up on things. I imagine he is all set to follow after Daddy’s example, and walk at around 18 months.
He’ll crawl if you hold his legs so that he can’t scoot with them, but that’s not the way he likes to get around.
He’s the official cuddle bug of the family, with his charming method of scooting right up to you and lifting his arms to be picked up. If you don’t do it right away, he scoots closer before trying again (with a slightly put-out expression.)
When I got him out of bed this morning, he clung to me for a good fifteen minutes, his hand on my right arm and his head on my shoulder. It’s a move that’s so uniquely Clive and I love it.
His Twiggese sentences are becoming more frequent and complex, though they remain unintelligible.
He finds great joy in pushing cars around and making vroom, vroom noises.
He is learning to sit still while a book is being read, and knows to join hands when we pray before meals.
Still sucks his first two fingers while going to sleep, but now also hooks his shirt with the thumb of the same hand to pull the fabric up to his chin. He’s particular about things.
Now sleeps with almost as many mys as Big Brother does. (Three total; Ephraim has four.)
Everytime Mama has to wake him, he’s wedged up in the same corner and almost completely covered with blankies.
Today, when I brought him down to the table for lunch after his nap, I set him in his high chair across from Ephraim and went into the kitchen. From there, I heard Ephraim say happily, “Twiggies! I love you–I LOVE you!”
Truer words were never spoken.