Watching Baxter during his third month of life, I bear witness to many exciting changes. There is an awakening: eyes that notice what was always there, and a mind that distractedly tests new boundaries and questions laws of physics.
Baxter takes supported-standing for granted, and acts like lolling about horizontally is ‘so last season’ (although he still can’t roll over). He tends to focus when milk is involved—sometimes I can get him to hold the bottle all by himself (always using a spotter). He sleeps for longer, uninterrupted hours, and his mornings are still my favourite as life literally dawns on him. If I’m lucky, with a quick bob of my hair and a wee tickle, Baxter will scream out a giggle that’s like candy for the soul.
Grabbing and gnawing are new. He limits this skill to bibs, blankets, digits and sometimes his teething giraffe. This brings me to the crux of the issue at hand: Baxter is like a leaky faucet. Drool, puke (and tears) make this one soggy dude, even before he’s finished a fresh wardrobe change. As the air clears and grows crisp in the evenings, his hands are greased and freezing. He insists on always keeping one arm hanging out the pram like teenager driving Dad’s Trans Am (that is, until it goes back in his mouth). He is oblivious to how cold his hands, chin and face become. Covering him is like putting a straightjacket on someone suffering a grand mal seizure. And mitts? Seriously?
The only comfort is the change itself. Perhaps by the winter’s edge, Baxter will have learned his own coping mechanisms. Perhaps he’ll be carefully putting on his own mitts, mindful they are warm and dry and remain that way. Perhaps he’ll use a damp cloth (from a baggy he keeps in his breast pocket) to dab gingerly at drips and danglers. Perhaps golden piglets will leap from my backside, prancing and showering all with valuable coins and best wishes!