Asa is six and a half months old.  A boy in the house, amidst all of Adeline’s girliness.

Such a solid little person, in every sense.  Physically, he is dense.  Fruitcake dense.  Nearly off the charts in the percentiles the pediatricians give you.  If he’s in the 98^th percentile for height and weight, what do the other two percent look like? 

When you pick him up, it’s a commitment.  Not like other kids, who you can carry and continue to buzz around, picking up toys, making lunch.  Holding Asa with one arm is sustainable for only a short period of time before your wrist begins to ache and your shoulder starts slumping forward in a way that can’t be healthy. 

He has this enormous head and cheeks so full that it’s hard to tell what shape his face really is beneath all that flesh.  I think the rule is that if you still have blue eyes by the time you’re twelve months old, they’re here to stay.  I hope Asa’s do, because they’re gorgeous.  They’re a deep blue, and I can’t stop dressing him in blue—navy, turquoise, azure… every shade of blue makes those twinkling eyes of his shine.  His eyes really do twinkle, Santa-style, when he smiles, and man can this kid smile. 

He is my cherub baby, here on earth to snuggle into me, chuckle his deep, earthy laugh, and flirt with the world.  Some babies favor mesmerizing ceiling fans, most are drawn to sparkling lights.  Mine lives for eye contact.  When we’re out and about in the world, he stares at strangers until they finally relent and look at him.  The moment they lock eyes with him, he grins crazily and jerks around in my arms in spasmodic joy.  It’s not so different from holding an excited puppy—a strong one, a lab maybe.  No poodle, this kid. 

So what will all of these qualities add up to in a few years’ time?  A jolly, people-oriented, lady-killing linebacker? 

I’m in no rush to find out—I like him just the way he is right now, though I’ll be grateful when he’s able to put his chubby legs to use and move under his own motor, saving what’s left of his mama’s back.

By Eliza Harding Turner

Labels: 98th percentile, baby, blue-eyes, cute son, Eliza Harding Turner, girliness

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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 12:01 AM