Independence. It's amazing how our instincts push us toward self-reliance. CJ has turned violently resistant to being spoon-fed. So, earlier this week, we gave him the keys to the cutlery. He proved remarkably adept at transporting food to mouth; and, oh, food is so squishy and mushy and throwable. It's a winning combination (for him).
The other photo shows him climbing the back stairs, somewhere near the top. He was moving too fast for my camera, and every photo was a blur. He's yet to master the reverse option, and prefers to stand at the top and shout till his personal escort makes a speedy appearance: ("When the heck did you get up here, you monkey??" "You were blogging, Mama. It was a breeze.")
Except he hasn't said "mama" yet, so that last sentence is an obvious forgery. "Dada" he chortles with enthusiasm and accuracy, but mama has yet to roll off his tongue.
He's almost weaned himself. We're close. This seems early (I nursed the last two far longer), but I'm taking my cues from him; and honestly, the only time he settles in for a solid nurse is at 3 o'clock in the morning, which I'm used to, but won't miss terribly. The transition seems worth mourning or marking somehow--having spent the last eight years and eight months either nursing or pregnant, this state of gestation/lactation feels fundamental to my identity; and has been an identity in which I've felt so comfortable, so at home. But it feels like a graduation--I've earned the degree, and I'm ready to move on to the next challenge.
Whatever that may be. I'll keep you posted. He hasn't quite unlatched yet.