It was like he read these lines from last week’s blog post:
He can get both hands up on a stool or coffeetable (though he still has no idea how to bring his center of gravity in close enough to fully pull up).
Within days, he had started scooching his knees in, so he was in a fully upright kneel. He practiced this for a little while. He is quite fond of kneeling with his hands on our stepstool and then pushing it around in front of him as he walks on his knees. Every so often he stops, looks up, and begins pounding it and yelling as if it’s a mobile podium and he’s a demagogue.
And then, inevitably, he built onto the kneel. One foot snuck around the side and went flat on the ground. There was some grabbing and adjustment, and then the other foot. More adjustment. Standing.
A few days ago, I went into his room where he was babbling instead of napping, and found him fully standing, holding onto the tall end of his crib, looking very pleased with himself. Since then, he’s pulled up on all sorts of chairs and legs and the side of the bath. His favorite pull-up toy is the open dishwasher, though sometimes he slips as he’s pulling up and ends up sliding under the door, like a mechanic under a car.
For whatever reason, it’s the kneeling, not the standing, that’s getting me a little teary-eyed. I look at him up on his knees, playing with a toy, and he looks so grown up to me. A real big boy.
On the other hand, there are times like at 3:30 this morning, when I nursed him, and he fell away from me, eyes closed, drunkenly grinning and murmuring contentedly, and I remembered that he’s very much still my little baby boy.