Olivia is nearly a year old.
She can now say and do many more things than seemed possible for her even six months ago. Let this be a lesson to you, Jeff.
I think of her an inordinate amount, in relation to any other subject of thought I have ever known. And yet, it seems appropriate and well-deserved. I am unabashedly proud of her accomplishments and regularly kiss her on the top of her noggin as a reward, which she accepts with her usual aplomb and raspberry-sound.
Soon will come The Walk, with syncopated beat of tender foot skin under shaky stiff knees, then The Run, then even more of the Conkus of the Bonkus.
But until then, The Pulling Up, The Scooting Around, the more measured sound of crawling hands slapping floor and small knees knocking.
I'm enjoying W.B. Yeats' "A Prayer for My Daughter" , giving the line for the blog title, but moreso for the ideas that follow it:
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.