New

Tucker is nine months old now, and he doesn't seem so "new" any more. He stands more than he sits, and we talk about how tall he looks, rather than how long he is. He wears jeans and hoodies more often than onesies, and appears to be more boy than baby. He still likes to be dandled on our knees and to rest his head on our shoulders, but he also likes to clamber up our legs and to use our appendages to assuage his aching gums. He still appreciates lullabies and story books, but he'd prefer to add his own harmonies and to turn pages at his own pace.

There's something alluring about newness. The feeling of a new day, the smell of new crayons, the crispness of a new bill, the crack of a new book. Newness is invigorating, it promises possibility and hope.

Tucker walks, practically runs, behind the block wagon, and he doesn't seem so new any more. He feeds himself Cheerios and drinks from a cup and he doesn't seem so new any more. Tucker no longer uses a pacifier and boasts five pearly whites, and he doesn't seem so new any more. He responds to his name and provides perpetual prattle, and he doesn't seem so new any more.
But every day we find something new to love about Tucker. And every day he promises possibility and hope.
JEB