If You Have Cuteness Issues, Cover Your Eyes Now

Max is a peeker. There hasn't been a good shot of him peeking, until now. Peeking is kind of difficult to capture photographically. There are other, more "peeky" shots but they are so stoopid cute, they will melt your monitor as well as your brain. I will privately email these unseeable shots if you request them. . . and you sign a waiver freeing me from any liability of your post brain-melted life.

A Multitude of Happy Places

Well, two, at least. Previously, we saw how Max drifts off into bliss with bread. The boy loves his carbs, what can I say? Here we see the boy in the zone with his tin of Burt's. The first time we noticed Max at the table, a drip of drool on his bottom lip, and his hand running the tin back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. His eyes were in some far off place, the sound of the metal on wood hitting some deep, deep baby neural pleasure center.

Watch closely around the 18th second, when Max grasps the tin in both hands and shivers with crazy joy.

El Pan, She is Muy Sabroso!

Max digs bread. Everyday, the kid finds something that he loves, something that he didn't know he loved and he loves it all the way. When he falls into adoration, that's all there is for him right then. You can give Max a heel of baguette, and other than making sure he doesn't choke on a big chunk, you're good for as long as the bread lasts.

Only problem is when the chunk gets kinda small and you have to take it away, he freaks out for a minute. He loves his bread!

Fire Trucks Have Feelings Too

Poor Sparky: Katie ordered him because over at the house of one of his baby pals, Max about flipped over some kid's fire truck. He stood there for a half an hour (or so the story goes) grunting happily, ringing the bell, doing his mega-happy half-squats.

So we order the damn fire truck; it arrives and we stay up, putting it together. While I manipulate a screw through an hole, blindly, at an unlikely angle, I curse the engineer and think back to Christmases past when I drifted off to sleep to the sound of my Uncles, Aunts and Parents, on the drunk side of buzzed, trying to piece together our toys by morning. This was after, of course, my grandma had cajoled them into letting us all open a gift or two that night. Cripes, those really were the days, weren't they? Oh, youth!

Anyway, the next morning, we get Max up and come out to the living room after his breakfast. The way Katie has primed me, I figure I'm going see Max's eyes pop out of his head when he sees this fire truck. We set Max down and wait for the fireworks to begin. He kind of regards Sparky warily, rings the bell feebly and reaches out one arm. We follow the direction of his hand and out eyes trail to his new, true girlfriend: Veronique, the vacuum cleaner we purchased a few days before. . . also red.

Max, fickle is thy middle name.

Maxie is a Punk Rocker

Not Ed Grimley or Alfalfa: a punk rocker. Punk. Rock.

Oh, stand by for tasteful video of Max walking from the changing table to the tub, nude. Anyway, here's a post-script to his naked hallway goose step.

Live, With a Net. If, By "Net", You Mean "The Parents"

So, previously, our delay was due to a nasty, probably-not-quite-by-accident, virus. Now, what we got is a developing human being. Now, if you ask Gaia, She(?) might tell you that out little stander-upper is just another variation on a virus. But, guess what? We didn't ask Gaia.

Be that as it may, it does not change the fact that Max is requiring a bit more attention than months past. Not "requiring attention" in the "Dad! Mom! Watch this!" way, more in the "I'm-going-to-stand-here-until-I-fall-and-hopefully-you'll-catch-me" way. Watching Max used to involve watching him lay in one spot until he got grumpy, then you'd move him. If he was still grumpy, it was time for a nap.

Now, hell, even when you're right there he manages to do face plants in new and distressing ways. But, on a relieving note, we've discovered he can survive and thrive after numerous head injuries. . . jyst lyke hees dah-dee.

All of this is hopefully an explanation for present and future blog absences. Anytime you notice a gap in posting, just picture us, here; instead of blogging, we're sitting near Max with our hands out. It's like playing catch with your little sister: all of a sudden, everything you know about trajectory goes right out the window. You just put your arms out, close your eyes and hope Max hits your hands.