laughs

David laughs. He laughs a high squeaky baby squeal of mouth-wide-open
delight. He laughs the hardest at that thing. That thing that he
frequently sees downstairs flapping back and forth. It is dark and long and
thin and swings rapidly back and forth and back and forth in the air about
three feet above the floor and is just so delightful that David squeals like
the Pillsbury dough-boy on smack. This thing is usually accompanied by that
other thing that likes to get up in his face and smells bad and often licks
him. That big black and gray thing does not make him laugh; it just puzzles
him. It's as if he would like it to go away to that he can watch that other
wagging thing and laugh.

Venus fly trap. Put something in his hand and instantly the hand goes to
the mouth. Blanket in the hand--to the mouth! Rattle--to the mouth! Steak
knife--just kidding. I was trying to imagine the biological advantage of
this reflex at an age where he does not need to be able to feed himself
under normal circumstances. I imagine his primordial ancestral parents
being dragged away and eaten by saber-tooth tigers, leaving baby on the
floor of the cave or the hut or where ever. His only survival mechanisms
are charm and this hand-to-mouth reflex. What would he eat? It would have
to be small enough to get into his mouth and dumb enough to crawl into his
hand. I can only think of one thing--bugs. This discovery is a helpful
revelation while unemployed because a box of crickets is way cheaper than
baby food and the basement is fully stocked with all kinds of things. Heck,
when he gets hungry, we could just lay him on the basement floor, turn off
the lights, and let him fill his little face with high concentrations of
crunchy protein. I bet he would squeal with delight.