Grit

Days ago Calvin couldn't crawl and now he is lurching around the living room on all fours, taking full advantage of Audrey's nap time to chew on her toys. Her toys are all the ones, you see, that she is interested in, and a baby toy by definition is some piece of junk that she doesn't care about but will do just fine for Calvin, thank you very much. Her idea of a fair trade is to rip the legos out of his fat and eager little hands and offer him an empty toilet paper roll in exchange. Not exactly negotiating in good faith, but for now the notion of trading keeps Audrey from being an absolute tyrant. And Calvin thinks, "Hey! A toilet paper roll! Cool!"

So he's locomoting all over the place here while I read my novel (The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, since you ask) with one ear tuned to the baby monitor for the sounds of even, slow breathing that means Audrey has gone to sleep. And while I am semi-ignoring Calvin, suddenly there he is, pulling himself up to a full stand. His efforts are furious and intent. He uses everything-- fingers, toes, torso, and finally he grips my pant-leg in his gums to haul himself the last few inches. Then beams-- simply beams at his achievement.