Cillian is almost seven months old now and his world expands daily.
In the evenings, we stand outside our house and look through the leaves of the jacarandas, black beans and weeping elms for a glimpse of the chattering lorikeets as they zip home to roost in the palms on Alma Street. Cillian tries to grab the leaves of the little frangipani that overhangs from our garden to the street. He tries to grab everything now.
Our cat causes great excitement, little dances of delight whenever he is spotted. Spuddy is considerably less enthusiastic about the sight of Cillian.
His musical butterfly is no longer just for clambering across, but he wholeheartedly thumps its keys to get more sounds and if I haven't turned on his musical mirror, he will soon let me know.
Nor is his play confined to the carpet we have laid down for him on the wooden floor of the living room. He cannot yet crawl, not through lack of effort, but can roll and turn through 360 degrees and do a little caterpillar motion that gets him where he wants to go to more or less. Usually this means his toy box, though yesterday he faced the tv unit, too high for him to reach thankfully and chuckled at the lights of the machines there. I can no longer leave a cup of tea on the floor.
He has always been a people person with smiles for all and sundry, particularly the ladies. Small children he loves and from an early age watched them like a hawk. But now he engages with other babies in a most animated fashion.
Almost seven months and his world expands.
I have to go now, my shoes are coming in for some slobbery attention.
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