The transition into toddlerhood has been swift and complete. Le Petit now walks around the apartment with nonchalance, with his arms up and elbows bent for balance as if to indicate a field goal. He's a pro, and you'd never think that just weeks ago he was clinging to the china cabinet and trying to decide if he should launch himself into the unknown.
When I let him wander into the kitchen, he heads straight for the low shelf that holds the saucepans. He selects two pot lids with care and takes off with his prize, one in each hand. In deference to our long-suffering neighbors, I do my best to keep him from dropping them.
(I confess that once or twice I let le Petit throw the lids and watch them clatter and spin on the tile floor. It made him laugh, and that was worth clamping my hands over my ears. Then I remembered that we lived on the sixth floor, and the folks downstairs already know who we are.)
I usher him to the rug in the living room, where he sits down and starts to clang the lids together like cymbals. He squints his eyes shut just before each clash, anticipating the glorious noise they'll make. We'll just have to get him a drum set. He's a star in the making.
And I thought he'd only be famous for his voice.
I bought le Petit a beach ball. I think we enjoy it even more than he does. We can bounce it down the hall with no worry about the noise, and le Petit chases after it giggling -- when he isn't distracted by the pot lids, that is.
Tonight my husband grabbed it and tossed it, and it sailed over le Petit's head and landed square in the middle of the remains of dinner on the dining room table.
He looked at me sheepishly. "Oops."
"Now I know what it means to give birth to a boy," I smiled. "I really gave birth to two boys... didn't I?"