And then Cleo learned how to splash.
No, I mean really splash. At least, as vigorously as a 20-pound baby can manage.
For most of her first year, Cleo was - well, not tentative, but not exactly ambitious in the tub. She slowly migrated from end to end; she spent a lot of time filling tubes and buckets, and pouring them, and she showed occasional interest in the water spout. And from time to time, when she was learning to climb stairs, she'd simply try to heft herself clean out of the tub.
We joined a local pool in May, and Cleo's maintained her studied cool when near the water. She's vaguely happy, it seems, floating about in her inflatable yellow ring, and she's certainly content practicing her pouring while sitting on the side of the children's pool. Occasionally, if you hold both of her hands, she'll take a lurching stroll about the shallow end. But no big splashes.
Until this week, when she suddenly realized, apparently, that she can move a considerable amount of water. Hands fly, palms patting the surface with all of the force that she can muster. She stands, only to suddenly allow her legs to go rubbery and fall - sploosh! - into the water. Drops arc across the bathroom; a puddle forms outside the tub; her hair is glossy with small rivulets.
I didn't know what to expect, in many ways, when I was about to become a dad. But I did know that I'd always vaguely envied parents for being able to attend the baths of their small children. Cleaning up after meals, or reading the pages of a board book for the nth time: those are duties, as much as pleasures. But watching your daughter learn to do the rough equivalent of a good ol' cannonball, in the confines of a bathtub? That's what it's all about.
No, I mean really splash. At least, as vigorously as a 20-pound baby can manage.
For most of her first year, Cleo was - well, not tentative, but not exactly ambitious in the tub. She slowly migrated from end to end; she spent a lot of time filling tubes and buckets, and pouring them, and she showed occasional interest in the water spout. And from time to time, when she was learning to climb stairs, she'd simply try to heft herself clean out of the tub.
We joined a local pool in May, and Cleo's maintained her studied cool when near the water. She's vaguely happy, it seems, floating about in her inflatable yellow ring, and she's certainly content practicing her pouring while sitting on the side of the children's pool. Occasionally, if you hold both of her hands, she'll take a lurching stroll about the shallow end. But no big splashes.
Until this week, when she suddenly realized, apparently, that she can move a considerable amount of water. Hands fly, palms patting the surface with all of the force that she can muster. She stands, only to suddenly allow her legs to go rubbery and fall - sploosh! - into the water. Drops arc across the bathroom; a puddle forms outside the tub; her hair is glossy with small rivulets.
I didn't know what to expect, in many ways, when I was about to become a dad. But I did know that I'd always vaguely envied parents for being able to attend the baths of their small children. Cleaning up after meals, or reading the pages of a board book for the nth time: those are duties, as much as pleasures. But watching your daughter learn to do the rough equivalent of a good ol' cannonball, in the confines of a bathtub? That's what it's all about.
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What fun, and what a beautiful child she is!
ReplyDeleteMom and Dad