I've acquired a new skill: Extend the index finger of the right hand and press the button. Press again! Press the carpet. Press the couch cushion. Press Dad's nose. Press Mom's glasses lens. Who cares what you press? It's a button. If I press, then something happens. Mom smiles; Dad laughs. The toy puppy says I loooooove you. And, as of last night, the dishwasher runs.
That's right, my friends. After approximately 20 months of marriage, Mom and Dad finally bit the bullet and joined the 1960's. A portable dishwasher sits in our kitchen - like it was born to be there. Three cheers for reduced kitchen cleanup time and for craigslist.
In addition to pressing buttons, Dad's recently introduced me to Tough Love Tummy Time. (Can I help showing no interest in moving? I'm far too busy learning other tricks: like my call-and-response to Dad's snoring, my dance moves from the sitting position, catching the Micky Mouse beach ball, and - of course - pushing buttons.) While I'm no closer to crawling now than I was a month ago, I must say, tummy time really isn't all that bad.
A brief something on the parents: Mom's getting more pregnant by the week - more votes for another boy than for a girl, I daresay. We'll see. Summoned to jury duty last week, Mom sits on call-in status. Twice per day, she calls the courthouse to see if her legal know-how and fair judgement is needed within Hennepin County. So far, not needed. Dad's kicking some booty around the house. The landscaping is finished, the compost heaps are doing their thing, and day by day, the neighbors become more envious of the sweet dinner-time smells wafting from the kitchen windows. (Dad signed us up for a specific Community Supported Agriculture group this summer. Who knew kale had so many uses? More on that in my next entry.)
Welp, I best be off to bed. This teeth-growing, tummy-timing, button-pushing beau needs his beauty sleep. Until next time,
Ken
