At seven and half months old, the dink has come along way. Recent accomplishments include sitting up for extended periods of time without falling over, drinking water out of mama's glass, and waving his hands in the air in his first attempts to imitate clapping. He also "hugs and kisses" me when I pick him up from daycare, which consists of him grabbing the hair on both sides of my head and latching his mouth on to my cheek. He certainly experiences each emotion to the fullest.
For Father's Day, dink gave DH the gift of fussing for the first time when DH left the room. It was just a little whine that didn't last long, but he let me know that his daddy's absence did not go unnoticed. That sort of thing is a big deal. DH is still telling the story of the first time the dink was happy to see him after work. It was shortly after I went back to work, and the dink and daddy started to get to know each other better by having their morning routine together. I was burping a schlumped over pile of sleeping baby, trying to rouse him to finish eating before going to bed, when DH came home. I passed over the groggy sweetness, who briefly opened his eyes, looked at DH, and delivered the funniest ridiculously sleepy half smile with his eyes barely cracked open, acknowledging his daddy.
I whimper too when I walk out of the bedroom at 6:40 a.m. and leave dink and daddy snuggled up in the bed. And when the daycare tells me he fussed all day and that they think he's sick or teething or whatever and then I get him home and he's happy as a clam. And when DH doesn't come home from work until after seven and I've been feeding and playing and mothering and houseworking for hours without him. But baby smiles bring celebration. Like mini hallelujah orchestras everywhere, and jumbled syllables of thanksgiving for this life, for life in general, for dinks, and for daddies.