Voice

Oliver found his voice when he was 3 months old. It was a cool November evening, already dark. We were packing for a trip to San Diego for Thanksgiving, and Oliver sat in his bouncy seat and watched us bustle about the house. From his vantage point he kept us entertained with a running commentary of squeaks, coos, and babbles, accompanied by hand gestures and smiles. It was as if a flood gate had opened and the stream of thoughts he had been storing up for his first few months of life came pouring out. And out. And out. After the first hour of talk turned into the next and he was still going strong, I called my parents and held the phone up so they could hear what our formerly quiet newborn had to say.

He did eventually stop talking long enough to go to sleep that night, but that was the start of a conversation that hasn't much more than paused since that day. By the time he was 15 months old he was telling stories, all about cars that zoomed past in the street and diggers that lifted and dumped. Around 18 months I recorded him telling an involved story about a giraffe. He was laying in bed, theoretically trying to fall asleep, and every once in a while he would fall silent for a second or two and I would think "yes! He's out!" but then he would pick up the thread of the story again and keep right on going.

Another mom once told me about her own very verbal boy, a year or two older than Oliver, "some days I just want to open the door, put him out on the street and leave him there for a while so I can have some peace and quiet." Now that Oliver is almost four, I really get where she was coming from, but I love it that Oliver has the verbal wizardry to reveal the vivid wanderings of his imagination. Every time I hear "You know what?" I wait with genuine curiosity to find out what is coming next, and I'm rarely disappointed.

Yesterday, for example, I was pulling the car into a parking space at the grocery store. The space was a narrow one and I missed the angle the first time. As I reversed and straightened my wheels, Oliver announced from the backseat, "God doesn't exist. I think he just appeared for a minute to begin everything, then disappeared again."

"That's interesting Oliver. Were you talking with someone about God?"

"No, I was just thinking it. Another thing is, I was thinking we should buy lots of treats at the store."

I've been thinking a lot about this exchange, and I truly have no idea what spurred his thinking on this subject--creation, that is, not treats. I do know that it's a precious thing to have the opportunity to watch Oliver discover the world. He takes nothing for granted, but grapples with every subject from cement mixers to pirates, tree climbing to the ethics of eating other creatures. It's a gift to have such fierce curiosity and I think it will take him many interesting places in his lifetime. I'm lucky to be along for the ride.

Seven for the seven month old

1. Dinner eaten, applesauce sponged out of your eyebrows and Oliver playing in the bath with Daddy, I took you out to the garden this evening. Wide-eyed, arms reaching, your fingertips brushed the new lettuce, mint leaves, yellow flowers of a kale gone to seed. We tasted an apple, which was not quite ripe, and a plum exploding with juice, and you liked them both. You are opening to the world like one of those flowers, and nothing passes by that you don't want to taste, touch, smell.

2. In line at the airport last week you made friends with harried travelers all around us; when the line moved, you craned yourself sideways to see the man behind us again. You were less happy on the plane itself. So loud, those strange voices coming from speakers all around us, but you found quick solace in my singing, your brother's hand, Daddy's games, and finally curled around me in the seat to nurse. As you drifted into sleep, the drone of the engine and chatter of the other passengers fell away from me. I looked past Oliver, following his gaze out the window. A slice of wing, the sky, bluer than blue, and the endless mountain range of clouds below.

3. So many firsts: First swim, which you met with seriousness, as if you didn't want to miss anything. Your body remembered the water, legs kicking smoothly as I towed you through the pool. Your new shrug--a goofy grin, your shoulders pulled up to your ears. Your top teeth are new, too, hard-won through hours of pacing in the dark, small hours of the night.

4. Restless in the early evening, you call me from my work or reading, eyes wide and lower lip trembling. I lay beside you and your eyes close before my head finds the pillow. You burrow closer. I am getting nothing done, but breathing in your milky sweetness is enough.

5. Every day you wake up happy. When I convince my eyes to open, you smile in delight, then turn over to see if Daddy is awake. Best of all is your first Oliver sighting of the day. Joy!

6. You are learning what you don't like, too, perfecting the Stiff Baby approach to avoiding the car seat, and protesting loudly when something you want is out of reach, or taken from your grasp. "I was eating that book! Give it back!"

7. 2AM in a starlit room, walking you through a restless night of teething, you are so tiny and so heavy all at once. I rest my lips on your fine hair, gauge your readiness for sleep by the rhythm of your breathing. I am too tired to trace a straight line with my feet, but wouldn't trade the weight of your head on my chest for the most luxurious of beds. Sleep will find us both soon. Let the clock hush its ticking now, the earth spin a little slower, the crescent moon pause on the branches of the poplar trees as we make our way towards morning.