Letter to Charlie #1
You are 9 months old. No, as a matter of fact, you just turned 10 months old. Yesterday. Can you belive it? Me neither.
I apologise for not having written sooner.
You are unbelievably cute. You have two little teeth in the centre bottom, and two more teeth either side up the top. They are eye teeth, I think, although some people might call them fangs.
I saw you push your tongue against the bottom teeth, feeling them. I thought how strange that must be for you, a new presence in your mouth.
You like it when I say, “bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, flyyyy!” and toss you up in the air. Each bounce is steadily higher, there is suspense building up, and then when I say, “fly!” I let go. You get some air. You don’t always enjoy that really. It’s more the suspense that you like.
I have noticed that you sometimes grin when you don’t understand what I’m saying. When I say something like, “Can’t forget to buy laundry detergent or we’ll have nothing left to wear!” in a joking sort of voice. You give me a friendly grin. And then a troubled look skitters across your face. I think it’s because you don’t actually get the joke. You know, from my tone of voice, that it is a joke, and so you smile politely. But you’re hoping I won’t ask a question that requires you to admit, "I don’t know what laundry detergent is. What do you mean?"
Charlie, do not be troubled. It’s my fault. I have never explained to you what laundry detergent is. Why should you know?
(Or maybe you are genuinely troubled that we might run out of clean clothes. If so, forgive me for underestimating you.)
In the last few days you have begun the deliberate dropping of items over the edge of your high chair. You do this in a very cool, sophisticated way. When you’ve had enough of your cream cheese sandwich you hold your hand out to the right and let it drop. You continue facing me as you do this. Sometimes I catch it as it falls, but mostly it just lands on the floor.
Charlie, that was cute for a while, but enough now. It’s messing up the floor. When you’re full, just place the sandwich neatly on the high chair tray and brush your hands together. Thanks.
I’m not sure if those bloggers' babies answer these letters, but I’ll assume you plan to reply.
If I can put the effort in.
I have quite a few questions, but I’ll just ask one for now. This is my question:
Well, I’ve noticed that you do not find many things humorous over time. One day it’ll be a real laugh-riot every time I pick up a pillow and say, “Quack!” The next day, you’ll be, like, “Yeah, I heard that one before.” Staring, bored, maybe a slow blink, so I feel like a bit of a fool with the pillow in the air.
But there’s one thing makes you laugh consistently. Ever since you were, what, two months old? Ever since then, every single time I sing, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’, you put your thumb in your mouth and grin. Now and then in the course of the song you giggle. By the time I get to my gentle fade in the last line of the song, you’re killing yourself with hysterics.
Think it’s a real hoot, don’t you?
So, my question is this: what’s so funny, Charlie?