I feel like, in the last month or two, we've crossed the threshold from the giant thrilling milestones to the everyday little miracles. It's like Steven and Eleanor are picking things up so fast, so constantly, that there's not one light bulb moment to make a big bloggable celebration of, but hundreds of them every day. The way they play together, the way they swarm all over any adult on the floor to beg for a "boo," the way they chatter incessantly at each other in a stream of "ba!" and "uh-ooh" and "doddy, doddy, doddy" (well, that particular one is always directed at the dogs).
The way they're these rough-and-tumble little explorers, who will climb on anything and find a way to make anything into a game - right this minute, they're sitting at the window, watching the doddies and putting alphabet letters in my shoes. They'll dance at anything - the tiniest snippet of music from the cheesiest electronic toy will have them both stopping in their tracks to bop around till it's over. Sometimes they'll both crack up laughing, and I'll look around to see them kneeling in the middle of the toys, foreheads pressed together, giggling at some private joke I couldn't hope to understand.
I was thinking about why I wrote so much here and in my journal when they were so little, but have written so much less recently - it's not because the newness and wonder have worn off, it's because they're so constant now, and I'm involved in them. When they were tiny and sleeping all the time, I had a lot of time to write about what they were doing when they weren't. Now, they're on the go all the time, exploring and discovering and playing and wanting me to read books and needing me to build forts and begging for "didi" (my phone), and the newness and wonder of every one of those things is just as amazing as those early days.