I'm insanely proud of my son. When it comes to him I view the world through rose colored glasses. There's nothing he does that doesn't amaze me. Well, maybe when he slaps the spoon out of my hand when I'm trying to feed him and splatters baby food all over the wall. Even then, the splatter radius is pretty damn amazing. But nothing prepared me for what he started doing yesterday.
As I mentioned in a previous post, his mommy was out of town this weekend so it was just him and Daddy. Being the book nerd that I am, we spent a lot of the time reading (the guest room looks like it was hit with a book cyclone), and we must have read two dozen yesterday alone. But nothing could have prepared me for what I caught him doing afterward.
He was sitting in his play yard (we call it "baby jail") with a book opened and on his lap, pointing at the pictures and saying "Gwee, gwee, gwee... Gwee, gwee, gwee." Then he'd turn the page and the chant would continue, finally ending with a big cheer as he slammed the book shut.
He was reading! At fifteen months old he was freakin' reading! Well, not really reading. Not in the technical sense of the word, anyway. But he was trying, and that made me so proud that... well, I can't think of an appropriate euphemism right this moment, but suffice to say I was really damn proud.
Don't believe me? The hell you say! Here's some photographic evidence:
We're raising that child right, I tell you what.