Raspberries
I don't know when you learned to do it; stick your tongue between your lips and blow out, a twinkle in your eye and excitement in the squeal that followed.
It got a good reaction in Poland, when you were sitting proudly in your highchair, charming your grandparents with your concentrated chewing; stuffing handfuls of whatever you were given into your mouth. A pause, a swift look to check all eyes were on you, and then a big pthhhhhhheew! Food sprayed all over the table, shrieks from the assembled company, with your Daddy and me trying our best to look stern and not give into the sniggers that threatened to break out. Pleased, your face split into a wide grin, happy that you could provide such entertainment.
When you finish a feed, and your head is on my shoulder, I sometimes feel a tickling high up on my arm. Your lips vibrate on my skin and slobber drips slowly. A low hum crescendos into an abrupt 'bah' as you lift your head and experience the sudden breaking of contact.
Out in your sling, the wind sometimes catches you and ruffles your hair, which sticks straight up at the best of times. Unfazed, you blow back, shouting into the breeze and blowing raspberries for all you're worth.
Like all new discoveries, its attraction has gradually faded. We hardly ever have to hide our amusement while being sprayed with food now. My arm only sometimes gets the tingle of baby lips blowing out. But the wind knows better than to mess with you, little girl.
It got a good reaction in Poland, when you were sitting proudly in your highchair, charming your grandparents with your concentrated chewing; stuffing handfuls of whatever you were given into your mouth. A pause, a swift look to check all eyes were on you, and then a big pthhhhhhheew! Food sprayed all over the table, shrieks from the assembled company, with your Daddy and me trying our best to look stern and not give into the sniggers that threatened to break out. Pleased, your face split into a wide grin, happy that you could provide such entertainment.
When you finish a feed, and your head is on my shoulder, I sometimes feel a tickling high up on my arm. Your lips vibrate on my skin and slobber drips slowly. A low hum crescendos into an abrupt 'bah' as you lift your head and experience the sudden breaking of contact.
Out in your sling, the wind sometimes catches you and ruffles your hair, which sticks straight up at the best of times. Unfazed, you blow back, shouting into the breeze and blowing raspberries for all you're worth.
Like all new discoveries, its attraction has gradually faded. We hardly ever have to hide our amusement while being sprayed with food now. My arm only sometimes gets the tingle of baby lips blowing out. But the wind knows better than to mess with you, little girl.
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