These days, our Ziggy is still way into books. And knocking stuff down. (Blocks, laundry baskets, stacks of board books.)
He can do simple puzzles and play "open-close" with containers for many many minutes at a stretch.
After a short lived love affair with the quesadilla, he rejects them wholesale. Months after devouring hunks of avocado like a ravenous puppy, our boy spits the stuff out as if it were dirt. Though, actually, dirt doesn't slow him on his favorites: mango, beets, watermelon, hummus (sometimes), toast (sometimes), yogurt (almost all the time.)
Every day, my heart grows larger. The slap me silly it's so cute space between his two front teeth seems to hold every sacred secret truth of the Universe. He KNOWS the answers.
I am making Ziggy a book of all his "people." Daddy is making the cake Michele made us for our wedding and wants to get him a small hoops set. We're also thinking of this for his big first birthday gift.
Not that he cares so much, you know. The empty oatmeal box and my kitchen wisk are the biggest of big boy fun.
Except for us. We are his best toys, and it is to our delighted amusement and deep-like mutual appreciation that he likes us so awfully much. Ain't nothing like nothing like making that baby boy laugh or sing with contentment.
