My life in pictures

Some babies recognize their mamas by scent. Other by appearance. I can tell mine by the flashing light on her head that tracks my every move. And now thanks to the Chanukah fairy and the folks at Nikon, my world is a lot brighter...no, seriously...I think you can see that flash from space. At at any rate, those of you know my mom know that she is wired in such a way that makes her incapable of allowing me to do anything without documenting it in at least 27 different photographs. (Uh, have you seen my Shutterfly site? Those are just the shots that made the cut, folks.) With her D80, Mama finally has a true portrait feature on her camera. Which means not only will there be 27 different photos of everything I do, but now the background will be artistically blurred. Because after all, who wants to look at just a plain old picture of a baby in a swing??

Can you hear me now?

After months of silent observation, I finally figured out this whole phone concept for myself. I hold it up to my ear and say important things like, "Can I speak to your supervisor?" and "I'd like to place an order for delivery." Give me a couple more months. I'll be running this place.

Don't stand so close to me

Mama and Dada aren't really into letting strangers hold me...or touch me...or quite frankly look at me. Between you and me, they're a little n-e-u-r-o-t-i-c. I must have had imaginary pink eye a thousand times. There we'd be out in public. Me feeling perfectly fine. Then some baby-loving person would come up to me and smile and reach out to make nice with me and Mama would be all, "Oh, she's just getting over pink eye. I wouldn't touch her." (Don't tell anyone, but Aunt Amy gave her that line.) At any rate, my point is that Mama and Dada will go to great lengths to keep me at least an arm's length away from anyone who isn't related by blood or cleared via background check.

So imagine my surprise when Mama handed me over voluntarily to this guy on Tuesday. I can't quite recall whether I was crying for my Mama or because of my Mama. Note to self: Mama's judgment and Santa Claus character are both highly questionable.

A ball in the hall

I have amassed a lot of toys over the past 11 months...okay, who are we kidding, the past 13 months. (Dada started shopping early.) Some play music. Some have flashy lights. Some play music and have flashy lights. And I'm pretty sure that they're all supposed to make me a genius. But it turns out that no toy amuses me more than the $2 ball mom bought me yesterday at Gymboree. It's not that I needed another toy. It's just that she was hoping that if I had this simple plastic beach ball at home, I might actually participate in the activities at Gymboree, rather than spend my time trying to make my escape out of the circle at every opportunity to go retrieve it.

So yesterday we brought home the coveted Gymbo ball and literally had a ball in the hall! At least until Xana decided she wanted in on the game. Then we had a deflated ball in the hall. But that's a blog for another day...

Sip, sip, hooray!

I've decided that in an effort to fit in with the older, more mature contingency, I must embrace the sippy cup...even if I really have no idea what to do with it. So I just hold onto it and try to look cool. And I chew on it, because that seems to be what everything I own was designed for. Once in a while it malfunctions and I get a shocking spurt of liquid. I temporarily wrinkle up my face in shock and confusion, but I don't let it hinder my enjoyment of the cup...just in case any of the more mature kids happen to be looking. Viva la sippy cup!

"Why does it keep doing that?!"

Let 'er rip!

After months and months of tireless effort on the part of Mama (silly baby sign on chin), Dada (silly baby sign on forehead) and Nanny Shanny (no baby sign yet, as to not confuse me) to encourage me not to rip paper (except for that one book Nanny Shanny says is "really lame"), suddenly I had a cheering section for paper ripping with this so-called "Chanukah" shindig they seem to be throwing on a nightly basis. For the second night in a row, Mama and Dada broke out the presents. They seemed to be hoping I might pick one and somehow unwrap it myself. No such luck for them. I thought it best to take the cautious road, so I limited my interaction to hitting and tasting. A good time was had by all and when the festivities had wrapped up, I found myself the proud new owner of a drum and some other musical instruments I can play with when I am capable of not eating them. It's good to have a goal...

(P.S. I'd like to give a shout out to to my Omi for the means to start my own band!)