She can't quite crawl, yet. But if I put her on the floor, she doesn't stay in one place anymore. She can roll, pivot, and slither backwards, and she is starting to figure out how to put those things together to progress slowly, awkwardly towards her goal. Today it was a plastic bag with a paper envelope in it. It started out three feet away from her, at 180 degrees from the direction she was facing. She squirmed, twisted, and wiggled her way over to it, and five minutes later, I heard the telltale crinkle of plastic in her mouth. I resisted the urge to take it away from her right away. She was so triumphant. It was her prize, and she had crossed mountains to acquire it. She took the envelope out of the bag, and squirmed her way back to the spot where I had put her down. Eventually, she bit off a chunk of the envelope, and I had to take it away from her, but for a few fleeting moments, I was able to sit back and revel in her joy. To see the world from her perspective, full of interesting textures and things that make cool, crinkly sounds. The sheer joy of discovery, as those things suddenly become attainable, albeit through herculean effort.
I guess I should start baby-proofing the house.