Eldore turned fifteen months on the nineteenth of February.
As I’m typing, the little man himself is busily darting from one end of the room to the other. He has a washcloth in his hand. He runs this way, then that way, then sits down by the door, then disappears for a second (Mom! Dodo’s in the trash! Clive yells at me.) Then he’s running back near me again, now with one of my hair ties, and he’s trying to fit in on the back of Elvie’s junior chair.
Then he’s got pencils, and I tell Clive to get them from him. Eldore complies willingly, like it’s all part of the game, then goes straight back to drawer where he found them in the first place. “No, Eldore!” He looks at me for a second like I’ve grown another head, then throws himself down to the floor on his belly, stretching his arms in front of him and his feet in the air. He never breaks eye contact when he does this. I’m not entirely sure what the gesture is supposed to communicate.
