My baby’s a year now. I have mixed emotions. He’s beautiful. I love this age. I love his snuggles and hugs. I’m thrilled he’s developing normally and wonderfully. If he’s our last–I’m not ready to be done with babyhood.
He’s zooming around on all fours. He’s getting into anything and everything. He’s adept at exploring the world around him.
He refuses to sign, even though he has signed “nurse” for example, he usually only does it when he wants out of his high chair or out of his car seat, and steadfastly won’t do it when he wants to nurse, preferring the oh-so-subtle indicator of banging his head on my chest while trying to lift my shirt.
He loves to swing and of course be carried around. He doesn’t laugh frequently, but when he does he is completely contagious. He seems to be a more introverted baby than his big sisters, not vying for attention, but getting it nevertheless with that adorable six toothed smile and those gorgeous eyes.
Here is my sweet boy not walking.
And still not walking.
And. Still. Not. Walking.
But having a grand time nonetheless. I admit I am surprised that he isn’t walking. He crawled even sooner than Brielle did, and she was walking at nine months. He’s taken four steps total in his life, but I guess since he can get where he wants already, he doesn’t need to waste the energy figuring out something new.