movin, shakin
A lot happened this weekend in addition to Easter. For one thing, Harvey started crawling. On Saturday I put him down on the floor of Cara's kitchen and took two steps away to pick up a dish towel. Harvey put his knees half way under him and scooted right on after me. It was only three little scoots, but I screamed and cooed and smothered him with praise just like he'd just won the nobel prize. The next morning we put him down on the floor and a moment later he was under the table. "Do you see?" Dan said, "He's crawling over her."
"I know," I replied unmoved. "He totally does that now."
Also some time last week his hair turned curly. I don't know if it was the flood-induced humidity or the fact that we celebrated a jewish seder on Tuesday, but his mother's genes have suddenly expressed themselves. Seriously, he's crawling around like a little boy baby Shirley Temple.
Next it'll be tap dancing.
If Harvey had emerged from the womb curly headed I would have morned for him. I'm not a big fan of my curly hair, it's hard to keep it from looking messy all the time. So much the worse for a little boy dash teenager dash young man. But now that's it's been a while and my son looks the spitting image of my husband in all features facial, I'm glad to have this little bit of momma-ness reflected back at me.
Or away from me, depending on which direction he's crawling.
curly locks
late games
Spring is very much in the air around here, so for the first time in a while the weather was actually tolerable for the Red Sox opener. Weather for that reason or another, I'm feeling the baseball love—a change from the last year or so, when various things conspired to put me firmly in "meh" territory. The last thing Major League Baseball wanted to do to if they were trying keep me as a fan, then, was schedule the first game for after 8:00 on a school night. Sure, I was excited, but I was also in bed by 8:30! (Ignore the timing on this particular blog post: it's an aberration caused by an over-ambitious attempt at cleaning.)
Still, the Sox won in what I am led to believe was exciting fashion, so my enthusiasm is not yet entirely dampened. It is, however, further moistened by a perusal of the season's schedule, kindly forwarded to us by the good people at Suzanne & Company—maybe even by Suzanne herself! I can't help but note that there are only four Saturday day games this year and, of those, only one has a proper 1:00 start. Shameful, I call it!
At least tomorrow's game is at the seven o'clock hour (though even there, MLB or their television allies seem to have moved actual start times back a further five minutes to ten past the hour). So, whether or not I can make it to the end of the game, I'll be there by the radio ready for the first pitch! As long as I don't forget, of course.
[I must also note that I seem to have said all these same things, more concisely and with more humor, five years ago. Oh well. In this postmodern world, we can do no more than to endlessly recreate that which has gone before.]