He makes eating a biscuit so darn cute.
And I think we have a lot to look forward to in the personality department.
Ambrose is sticky.
Sometimes it’s when his hands have been exploring his mouth. Or in his excitement when he knocks the bottle out of my hands and its contents dribble over his pillowy knees. Or maybe it’s the bounty of drool and spit-up that usher forth from his mouth (crying eyes were never correctly called “waterworks,” Ambrose’s mouth is a more apt elaboration on that term).
But for all of this, the stickiest bit of Ambrose is
his smile and his gaze
the turn of his head when he hears you
and the way his eyes crinkle when they find you.
Never was something so syrupy sweet.
When I see him, the sweet sticks to me, like honey on fingers long after they touched the honey jar.
Baby food made a dramatic entrance into our household today. It was homemade from a sweet potato, and was the color of sun that had been left alone in a closet for some years and had aged like fine wine, bold and brilliant.
It might have been a bit too bold for sweet Ambrose. He held his face in a concerned expression from the first bite onward, until it was over, as though he were worried this strange stuff might bite him back.
Little new things, like sweet potatoes, are grand adventures with a baby. They require courage in the face of the unknown.
The next day he ate his sweet potato like a champ! Swallowed everything that made it into his mouth and then opened wide for more. Bold and unconcerned.
Today I walked north down King Street.
It was apparent that the city had been scrubbed. The sky had taken snow and burnished all the grey streets and grey walls and grey windows. I hadn’t known the city was made of white and gold. There was not a spot of grey left; the blue sky must be well practiced when it comes to polishing her grey city Aberdeen since North Sea has a bad habit of decorating it in fog. Everything crunched and sparkled.
And every surface was wet and gold. The street was like a blinding river of light, it rushed into your face and down your eyes until your head was filled to the brim with bright. The bright was so loud in your head the rest of the world was muffled and dim, like it was too far away to really touch, even though you were practically drowning in it. The busyness of King Street became a quiet bustle, like a dream of clean, whirring machines — cars and buses and skinny university students, all going, going in the bright of the street.
Even the stone cemetery on the right was brisk and shining, each headstone laid with a fresh line of snow on its top and the bare trees hung with tidy tinsel and ice.
It was very clear to me that I was in a snow globe that someone had gently (so as not to ruffle the snow) set on a windowsill in full sunlight.
Bright and loud. Brisk and bright. Everything clean and everything gold. And all of it rushing.
But my baby in the stroller knew only the bit of dusk that filtered through his eyelids. His world was dark and soft, tucked up as it was under the stroller shade. He sailed forward, swathed in a sea of blue blanket, with the peace of a starry night. Never was rest so oblivious to roaring light. He was my baby bear, hibernated and quiet, waiting for mother to wake him once we arrived home.