Belly flops and cat snacks.

My little bug, Bennett, has his own form of antenna.  It’s called his tongue.  If there’s a discovery to be made, first things first, it goes into the mouth.

That explains how this video begins.

(Yes, that’s the bead maze that Bennett got in his Easter pail.)

At 47 seconds, I began stacking some cups.  He loves knocking them over.  As it turns out, I was the one who eventually knocked the tower over in my own carelessness.

At 1:14, I beckoned for Bennett’s attention by creating popping “P” sounds with my lips.  He loves it.  (Second to that is the “S” sound.  Though usually when I make that one, I’m hissing at Emma to get her off of the kitchen table or out of the crib.)  It doesn’t take long before he ignores me, sucked back into the bead maze vortex.

At 2:00, we see an ungraceful belly flop onto his toy, thus converting it into a mean torture device.

But here’s the thing.  In spite of the fact that I adore Bennett and never wish harm to befall him, I stifle my gasps and pause to give him a second to decide if the various tumbles are really that upsetting.  If he’s well rested and on a mission, he usually just keeps truckin’ and can distract himself completely oblivious to the fact that he’s had a fall.  If he’s tired, frustrated or honestly hurt however, then often times he’ll seek the comfort that is MOMMY.  All in all what I’m trying to say is that Bennett is perfectly welcome to feel whatever emotion is truly stemming from his tender heart.  But in the hopes of discouraging false dramatics, I carefully try to hold my composure while he processes the jolt.

On this particular day in this particular video, Bennett is less than thrilled with his belly flop.  But the boo-hoo’s are nothing that a little distraction can’t fix!

At the 3:40 mark, you’ll notice that Bennett can’t hold himself up in the crawling position with just one arm while the other one reaches for the bead maze.  Instead, he flops again.  Incredibly, less than a minute later at the 4:14 mark, you’ll see him stick out his tongue in intense concentration as he finally (I’m pretty sure for the first time) figures out how to hold steady on one hand.

At 5:20, we discover the Very Loud Bennett.  On this afternoon, he was practicing his ba ba ba’s.  Sometimes it’s ma ma ma or da da da.  Depends on the day.  But, yeah, it can get, uh, exciting.

Minute six: enter Emma.  Let’s just say that we’re still working on Bennett’s understanding of the word “gentle.”  And, no, I don’t feel too sorry for her.

The 6:30 mark?  The sweetest, smiling acknowledgement of the cat that is before him.

…And then he tries to eat her.  (Her annoyed face is hilarious considering the fact that she’s choosing to lay next to the shrieking baby.)

Just your average Bennett afternoon.