Field Notes from The End of 2009

Every time Arlo looks in one particular corner of our living room, he starts laughing. Nowhere else in the house--just this one corner. Sometimes there are even arm-flaps of joy. My best theory is that there's something about the bold, mostly black-and-white nature of the art print in that corner (two 19th-century French ladies in black masks walking in a field filled with penguins and weird ghosts) that pleases him, a la the black and white and red play mat we bought for its black and white and red qualities. My worst theory is that there's a hilarious ghost hanging out in that corner that only babies can see.

Arlo likes being balanced on his side. One arm sort of pinned under his body, the other raised and grasping, his body precariously between falling forward and falling back. He can't get enough of it. He smiles, eyes lit up, when he returns to being on his back and stomach, but it's that wavering moment that makes him happily wig out.

So much of what has become ritual around here started completely by accident. A half-thought, a dumb idea, a bit of babble tried out of desperation through repetition becomes a solid...something. For example: One night, I guess four months ago, it seemed as though a silly song should accompany the ritual of getting Arlo ready for his bath. The first thing that came to mind was the Howdy Doody theme song (why, brain, why?) with "It's Arlo's Splashy Time" as the new, bath-friendly chorus. Four months later, it's still going strong, it's a thing, and it's mostly awesome, because when Arlo hears it, he gets immediately excited. Pavlov would be proud.

After much experimentation, the following diversions have been proven most effective in making Mr. A. Parlo laugh. Scat-singing "Superstition" by Stevie Wonder. Vibrating lip sounds. Going up in the air quick and down slow. Stomach raspberries. Back-of-the-throat kakk! kakk! kakk! sounds. And, most reliably, the cartoony bawking of a chicken. God bless you, chicken bawks.

Every bath for the first few months involved a lot of splashing. Arlo was propped up in his ergonomic tub, arms and legs going nuts, body slick and shiny like Ivan Drago in Rocky IV, a steely "I vill vin for za mother country" look on his face. But for the past two months, the novelty of being half-immersed in warm water has worn off. His training sessions are apparently over. Now he's content to lounge like a tiny naked Roman emperor, occasionally taking time to halfheartedly feed himself the little grapes of his toes.

When I hold him, Arlo pushes himself away, and looks out and over my shoulder, body diagonal like a) a kid holding onto the side of a moving train, b) a cabin boy mid-ladder on a tall ship, c) a window washer on a skyscraper.