Happy Hour

Yesterday, the husband and I were sitting in the living room, watching Ian as he crawled around, pushing his Fisher Price vintage toy telephone with one hand. Ian stopped at the cushioned ottoman we bought on credit about nine months ago when he started to crawl. He pulled himself to standing, a day's worth of floor grunge over his palms.

He pointed to the front window. "Dyah!"

He pointed to the front window. "Dyah!"

He pointed to the husband. "Dyah!"

He pointed to the fireplace. "Uh-dyah!"

He pointed to the fireplace. "Dyah!"

He pointed to the dog. "Ayayayayayayay. Dyah!"

He raised his arms and smacked both hands on the side of his head. "Dodo." No music was on, no TV. No nothing. I looked up.

"So, will we ever stop just... staring at him like this?"

"I don't think you ever do, do you?" said the husband.

Ian lowered himself, put one hand on a board book, and crawled across the rug. "Aaaaah!" he screamed. He loves to scream when he's excited. "Aaaaaaah!"