Olivia's lone daycare-mate, one day her junior, is crawling. Really, truly crawling. As in, moving herself with great facility from point A to point B--like, from her play gym to the nice caretaker ladies' kitchen. The very best Olivia can manage is to arc and squirm on her back for a few feet; less on her stomach. I'm not quite sure what is says about me that I flew home in a mild panic and started googling "developmental delay not crawling six months". Paranoid? Surely. Jealous, oh yes. Behind in reading my Mayo Clinic Guide to the First Five Years? Youbetcha. At least now I know that Crawly Girl is just being precocious. The showoff.
Did I ever mention that I sing her a lullaby to the tune of "O, Canada"? It is entitled, "O, Livia".
My breasts may have something against the metric system. Every time I pump, I get exact ounces. Two, three, four, five--always exact. It's never two-and-a-half or three-and-a-third. Weird, huh?
Have I told you that Olivia says both "Dada" and "Mama"? As for "Mama", she says it--or, rather, moans it--"Mamaaaaaaaaaa, Mamaaaaaaaaaa"--only when some great tragedy has befallen her, such as the removal of her banana-besmirched onesie or the glancing brush of her dainty head against any object firmer than the breast of a baby snow goose. But she says "Dadadadadadadadadadada" when she's thrilled by something, usually accompanied by her flashiest, gummiest grins and the vigorous jumping-up-and-down-while-holding-our-fingers maneuver she patented a while back. (I know--ha! She'll skip right past crawling and even walking and move right on to the pogo stick! Take that, Crawly Girl.)