Halftime

As he rounds second, heading toward his first birthday, I think to myself  
My goodness, where does the time go? 
One theory is: straight to his thighs. 

At six months old, Tolliver is a fun fellow to be around.  Through some combination of rolling and pulling, he moves, slowly, across the house.  He bangs his head on the wood floor, face plants into his own spit up, flashes a happy grin.  His bottom teeth poked through just this morning.  He sits to play, or to pick strawberries or to watch his brother.  Andy swears that he gives purposeful kisses, and Tuck is convinced that he says fank you.  Tollie would be content to spend all day in the jumper or in the bath tub.  He's not sleeping through the night yet, but is settling into more predictable nap times.  His eyes are dark, but are still rimmed in deep blue, his hair, more coarse, still leaning toward red.  He is particularly interested in his toes and I am particularly interested in his dimpled knuckles.  And his dimpled elbows, his dimpled knees, his dimpled chin. 

JEB