And, he's off!
One day last week, I plopped Noah down onto a blanket that I had spread out on the living room floor. I plunked some toys down in front of his face, then darted upstairs with Sam to get her dressed.
When we came down less than 5 minutes later, we could hear him babbling and cooing, but we couldn't see him from the stairwell.
He had managed to roll himself about 10 feet in that time. Almost the whole way into the kitchen. Which would not have been comfortable.
He's also figured out how to get up on his knees, but for some reason, he can't figure out that he needs to push his upper body up with his hands then, too. So he plants his forehead on the rug, lays his arms beside his torso, and pushes with his knees.
Then he cries because he's given himself rug burn on his forehead and his cheek. (My mom calls this technique "snowplowing," which I think is an excellent term.)
He's doing mildly OK with the sitting up thing, but he'd much rather be on his tummy right now, grabbing anything within reach to stuff into his mouth (and, therefore, coat in copious baby slobber), then rolling like a log to the next-closest brightly colored thing that likely will taste just awful.
Like the morning last week when he nabbed my fuzzy flip-flop slippers and promptly licked the edge of one of the soles.
Mmmmm, tasty.
I considered washing his mouth out with soap, but I kept picturing that scene from "A Christmas Story" where Ralphie has the fantasy about going blind and telling his parents it happened from soap poisoning because they made him sit with a bar of soap in his mouth too often.
Anyway, my little man's on the move. Let the games begin!
