I know what you're thinking. What is Zoe up to this week?
Zoe quizzes us with her eyes. She watches intently. If we tell a joke, she watches intently. If we sneeze, she watches intently. If we eat a ritz cracker with cheese-whiz, she watches intently. She watches intently. That's what she does.
You hold a mirror up to her, she watches intently. You shake a rattle at her, she watches intently. You lift her in the air and spin her around singing "whirlybird whirlybird," she watches intently. The dogs lick her forehead, she watches intently. With great attention, she watches us.
We buffoon around. We prepare bottles. We change diapers. We talk about plans for napping. We get the mail. We reach for stuff. We sit on furniture. We do all this and more.
She watches intently.
I'm beginning to feel watched.
Zoe's on the verge of a smile. I'm on the verge of kissing her on the nose. Jess is on the verge of making a new bottle. We're all in transition. We're transitioning. There's something changing every moment. There's something new to be learned. Zoe's learning. I'm learning. Jess is learning. Even the dogs are learning. The cat is learning. Neeka sits on the new air conditioner. She's learning to like the breeze. She watches Zoe intently. Zoe watches back.
It's the most quiet chaos imaginable. Everybody is so studious. There's elation in everyone's silent intent. We look close. We listen close. We feel close. There's an unexpressable intimacy to the entire day. I picked up a washcloth and handed it to Jess. Jess wiped Zoe's face. Zoe watched intently. It goes on like this for hours.
I love it.