A Not So Turkish Life

Ten Months

I’ll be standing with my back to you, just out of sight or right round the corner and all of a sudden your laugh pulls me to you with such force that it must hold its’ ow field. My darling boy T, at ten months and three wonderful weeks old, your laughter is the light of our home.

At ten months old

you chase your brother round the house like a pro, stairs are mere trifles and cushions more the fun,
you wake bouncing in your cot always ready to get a start on our day.
You love sour green plums and fridge-cold water
dislike chicken and brocoli and raisins.

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When you’re wide awake nursing you stick your toes in my mouth, grinning carefully so as not to lose the feed. You wind your fingers in mine ’til we’re holding hands so perfectly, grab both my cheeks to pull me forwards to lick.

You took your first steps on Friday night, confidently, certainly. Then sat down when you saw me get the camera.

At ten months old your hands clap for twenty hours of the day mashallah. Life seems thrilling every second of every day.

Along with your Baba you have a mealtime routine that starts with a bounce up and down in the highchair, arms half-raised, elbows back tongue up;
then after a beat you drop the arms, pull back in the tongue and shake your head, solidly, side-to-side.
Every single time, your brother and I laugh as Baba’s eyes and mine fill with tears.

Our quiet, expressive, peaceful Baby T, we love you so very, very much.

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At ten months old you hold you sit and blow out breathe slowly ’til your spittle starts to bubble
You lie down solitary on cushions around to contemplate life for a while, before pushing yourself up with a chuckle. I wish I could know what in your mind makes you laugh for your head is a fanciful place.
You are a destroyer of Lego towers, a budding drummer with pots and pans and a natural Picasso at heart,
Anticipation for the water filling up in the bath makes your whole body shake with glee
Released with a squeal as your toes hit the water.

At ten months old, blond hair fuzzy & mohawked in the humid summer sun, you are, my darling, the picture of a country-free born babe.

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Happy wobbling ’til you’re walking, baby boy, we’re three here to hold your hands.

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This entry was published on 06/05/2013 at 18:15. It’s filed under Baby 'n' Me, From Me to You, Photos and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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