Seven Months of Pippin

This has been the month of learning to play like it's his job. Pippin and Tadhg are becoming endearingly attached to each other. If Tadhg leaves the room in the middle of playing to get a different toy, Pippin cries at being left behind. If Pippin starts fussing after playing on the floor with Tadhg for a while and I pick him up, Tadhg immediately asks me to put him back down again. As much as I lament the fact that I can't give Pip the same undivided attention I was able to give to Tadhg, it's so much fun to see them being brothers.

Facts to remember (in case grown-up Peregrine ever loses sleep at night wondering when he grew his first teeth and other VITALLY IMPORTANT information):

Pippin's two bottom teeth poked through just after he turned 6 months old, and right after that not 2, not 3, not 4....but SIX new bumps appeared in his upper gums. Nothing's erupted, but he's working hard on getting the equipment for meat-and-potato eating. Not that he has much interest in meat and potatoes yet. Tadhg he is not. Offer him pureed baby food, and he barely opens his mouth after the first few bites; even the good stuff, like peaches and sweet potatoes. The only food he likes is whatever he can stuff in his mouth himself; if somebody gives it to him on a spoon, it's not worth eating.

He scooches around like nobody's business, but he still doesn't really have a lot of interest in sitting up. He's able to sit well enough if you get him in the right position, but he'd just as soon be horizontal. He's just begun to get the hang of walking around holding onto people's hands, though, and he thinks it's a pretty interesting trick.

He smiles at strangers, and he grins and tucks his head into your shoulder shyly when anyone makes a fuss over him. He's quiet and thoughtful and observant, and mostly he just likes being cozy and being loved. He's not demanding; he's not dramatic; he's just a sweet little sugar baby.

And here's the monthly glut of the same little baby face over and over again.

And a spotty-mirror selfie to round it off, because when you're a mama that's pretty much the only kind of pictures you get with your babies.

Oh, and a video. Pippin started his enjoyment of this particular Purdy rite of passage extra young.

Christmas Tree Hunt

Growing up, my family unfailingly chopped down our own Christmas tree from a sprawling, unkempt tree farm within a few miles of our house. Some people might think a sprawling, unkempt tree farm is the last sort they'd want to frequent, but those were its biggest draws for me--the two ingredients that separated mediocrity from magic.

Sprawling meant that it was a true hunt for the truly dedicated. Unkempt meant that finding a tree that 1) fit in your house and 2) didn't look like it was balding in awkward patches was an achievement of monumental proportions. We often brought our sleds, and after a long, meandering vertical trek we were rewarded with a glorious downhill slide.

The other asset of this particular tree farm was its rickety bridge over a river filled with rapids. (I mean, it felt like a river filled with rapids, which is the important part.) You had to cross the bridge in order to get to the hill of trees; no way around it. It was deliciously terrifying as a child, every time.

I'm a sentimental creature, and it's for all of these reasons that saying goodbye to that particular tree farm was a bitter pill after getting married. My dear husband, long-suffering man that he is, would have willingly driven 25 minutes to get there if I'd asked (in fact, we did get our tree from that farm the first Christmas after we were married). However, wisdom told me that with very small children in tow, starting a new tradition chopping down a tree from the tree farm at the end of our very own street would be a better idea.

It is not sprawling. It is large, yes, but not sprawling.

It is not unkempt. On the contrary, it is very kempt, indeed.

Each tree is perfectly shaped.

Each tree has a perfect point upon which to place a star.

And with two little people tree hunting with us, I suppose these features might (possibly) be selling points.

Snow was always a tree-hunting necessity growing up, but then we always went just before Christmas when the odds were in our favor. Since I've made my peace with abandoning tradition, I just went all the way. We got our tree just after Thanksgiving on a brisk, but absolutely beautiful, Saturday.

Tadhg (being Tadhg) was more interested in all the machinery they had at the tree farm than in anything else. See that little speck by the Kubota? That's our boy.

We finally made it through the Valley of Motorized Temptation and started up the hill to find our tree.

And find it we did. Quickly. Painlessly. With no delicious terrors, no above average dedication.

Home again, home again jiggity-jig.

This boy slept on me for pretty much the entire excursion, but he woke up to be cute while we were tying the tree on the roof of our car.

Until next year, Manageably-Sized, Tidy Tree Farm. Until next year.

Six Months of Pippin

You roll over both ways.

You don't sit up yet.

You have two teeth just barely under the gums. (Any day now.)

You decided that your middle finger and ring finger together taste much better than your thumb by itself.

You just today decided to prove how much of an inchy little Pipworm you are, making a circuit halfway around the perimeter of the kitchen.

You are a sympathetic cryer.

You have the best squishy legs.

You are observant and attentive.

You don't like loud noise. Or when you think someone is sad. Or hurt. Or upset.

You love Tadhg; Tadhg loves you. (But someday I'm pretty sure you're going to need a secret hideout for desperate times.)

You are placid, except when a toy doesn't cooperate with your intention for it. (Then you scream.)

You love to smile.

You delight us with your giggle.

And I am still struck at unexpected times at the miracle of your bodily presence here with us. A baby knit together all unseen--made, expected, hoped for, in our hearts for months before you arrived. But never promised to be given into our arms.

And yet here you are.

In our arms, healthy and well and growing.

All the squishy, quiet, smiley joy of you here with us.

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Grab-Bag