April 22: I hate to do anything that sounds too much like complaining, but Andrew currently has at his disposal a set of behaviors that act upon my brain like the tactics of a malicious, medieval torturer. He seems to assess my condition, and say to himself:
- “I think that the rack (a.k.a. whining) would work pretty well on her right now at melting her brain. I’ve been honing my pitch undulation and body flopping techniques, and I think I’ve hit upon a combo that really does her in.”
- “Hmmm…I know we were just having a great time, but what if I was to run away screaming and hide right now instead of going nicely like we prepped all the way here. That might result in some interesting expressions on her face!”
- “I’ve come up with 14 ways to avoid putting on my pants to go outside. I bet I can come up with another 6 to make it an even 20. Now that Sylvia is crying, this is starting to get pretty interesting. I wonder if we’ll still end up going or if I’ll leave the house a naked screaming flopping mess under her arm. Worth finding out how far I can push the situation until one of us pops!”
He mixes up the hard times with behaviors so angelic, so beatific and sweet that it makes it seem like heaven’s light is shining in our presence. When he makes up stories or chases after bubbles or makes innocent and poignant comments about the weather or his feelings or his love for his sister, well, I can’t imagine anything more lovely.
Sometimes I think it’s a really good thing that he’s cute.