The letter C

Today, dear readers, let's think about the letter C.

C, of course, in this context is for Cleo - Cleo the baby, who is now six and a half months old, who has spent a fraction of the past week practicing her first intentionally vocalized syllable (maa, maa, maa), who still approaches the world by trying to pick it up and then put it in her mouth, and who is starting to crawl backwards, in an apparent first step of sorts - an awkward and inverted step - towards moving from place to place.

But C is also for Chapel Hill, where the three of us are spending the holidays. And it's thus for the generosity of two friends, who have lent us their lovely house for several nights, and it's for two wonderful sets of grandparents, who watch Cleo wriggle, and hold her, and offer gifts and open arms and unconditional smiles, and it's for the memories prompted by any return home (L. remembering 411's whole wheat pasta with chicken, and me, today, recalling afternoons spent playing video games at what used to be the Pump House), and for 47 degrees, and for not having, necessarily, to lock your car when you park.

And C is for Christmas: for the 12 Days of Christmas displays that kept Cleo entertained this morning as she and I walked around a pre-dawn Chapel Hill, and for parking meters covered for the holidays, and for breakfasts with Santa, and for brothers flying in from New York, and sisters flying in from Chicago, and for baristas in Santa hats, and tins of shortbread, and pecan tassies, and fudge.

And, finally, C, say the Romans, is for 100. In cricket, 100 overs represent a century. And what of a hundred posts in a blog? I don't know if there is a term for such an odd combination of egotism, verbosity, and perseverance, but, regardless, this is the hundredth in my proffered series of meditations on Cleo, and I'm thankful, deeply thankful, to that little girl for so much fun over seven months - and thankful to you, reader, if you've read any of the previous 99.