Ollie is six months old. The past half-year arced from birth to now with a leisure I’ve never experienced. Time moved slowly, plodding up and down the rows of weeks, back and forth, until we found ourselves on the other side of the sun. Instead of a looming winter, we see summer on the horizon. Instead of newborn days and nights—the extremes new babies bring—we have infant afternoons. He rolls and jabbers and sleeps well.
He’s stolen our hearts and I suspect he’s fond of us, too. Not many babies have so many outreached arms. We’ve never had a more giggly baby, ever. There is so much funny business. He was born in a brick-walled comedy club, just behind the potted fern on the corner of the stage. That’s the story he will tell someday. Life is funny.
There are big dogs who lick his legs and music playing at all times. Mama tries to feed gloppy veggies to his skeptical toothless mouth. It’s about the only thing he doesn’t like. He rejects, but there’s no worry. There is time ahead, a curved spoon of another half-year. These two will click together into one whole, a ball to roll and toss into the air, caught, kept.