Ford turns one next week, and it’s like he went from babe in arms to leaping toddler monkey overnight. One day, he was dragging himself along the floor like a commando, the next he was standing, then climbing, and now jumping in place with shrieking glee. He hasn’t taken his first steps yet, but I would not be surprised if those steps were taken at a run. Walking seems too sedate for the neph; he’s got places to go and things to poke.

I like this shot because for such a smiley, exuberant kid, he’s also got a serious side that comes out in pensive moments like this. I’ll post some classic Ford grin-porn for the scattered relatives next post, okay?

My ovaries were bored while my brain was editing high-tech press releases, so I got them all riled up with a video. It’s bedtime with Ford and his folks, sometime in the recent, pre-surgical past:

I’m particularly fond of the self-referential triangle between Ford, the camera lens on his left, and the mirror in front of him. He’s out to beguile them all, himself most definitely included.

What also strikes me is how young he looks here, how much less crackling with curiosity he seems at nine months versus ten (although he seemed ultrasonic back then, ungovernably abloom). Of course, he’s wearing seven league boots, developmentally speaking, so every day’s a new frontier to discover; he’s manifest destiny with diapers and drool. I can’t quite keep up with him; I’m the east coast, already mapped and settled, while Ford’s a tiny pioneer.

Head west, young man, and I’ll follow behind, marveling at your locomotion.

Vid from dad’s flickr page.

Ford and the pups from The Subtle Rudder on Vimeo.

Ford came by for a visit yesterday and slithered around like a smiley snake, making his aunty happy and the pups nervous. They’ve always thought of him as a fragrant, lickable nugget-in-arms, easy pickings for a drive-by tongue-strafe. But they’re getting some of their own medicine, now that he’s motoring around, learning the world with his pinchy little fingers and his wet, wet mouth.

And yes, blue plaid flannel was my executive work attire as of yesterday at 11 am. Casual friday, y’know?

PS for Papou: If you click the video link above, you can download it for endless grandfatherly desktop viewings.

I think he caught it from me.

Every post I start lately swells inappropriately, sprawling and threatening to overtake the monitor. I must get out my pruning shears before I share.

More (well, less) tomorrow.

Last night, in a darkened room of hush and push, I saw my creative sister accomplish her most creative act: giving birth to her son, Ford.

My new nephew was named after my dad’s dad, who ranched in the Sandhills of Nebraska; a man who cared for cattle and planted trees, working earth and herd for his family’s betterment. Ford means the place in the river where you can cross over, so I like to think of this Ford acting as a bridge between the family of my growing up, and how we’ll all grow older together.

He, like any offspring, is what will keep us young, give us a reason to work and to play. But coming so late in the season, when our classmates have kids old enough to elect leaders and drink legally, Ford’s arrival seems like the essential sign of spring, more hopeful than crocuses, more lifting than a fifty-degree day that melts all the old snow.

Ford is also a verb, the act of pushing onward, forging ahead, getting to the other side. He forded his first life’s divide last night, and I mean to be there when he crosses his next, and next, and next.

Welcome to the world, Ford. Welcome to the family, young son, little monkey, joy magnet—we are all so glad to meet you.