Fine Motors

Those little hands, reaching, stretching, fingers always working, exploring, pushing, pinching. My little climber nurses, face buried in the breast, eyes closed tight, but all the while she is reaching out, feeling for the book or newspaper I might be reading, and if her finger or toe touches it, even for a second, it stops there, to investigate, to crinkle it, to push it. She lifts her hand into the air and moves each finger around in space. Sometimes her eyes pop open and she throws gang signs my way. I throw a couple back at her. Arm extended, hand bent at the wrist, index finger, middle finger, and thumb straight, the other fingers folded.

While in the highchair eating, or more often, it seems, refusing to eat what she doesn't find tasty, she will gaze idly at her hand and touch index to thumb, then middle to thumb, then third finger to thumb. Her lips make a little oval as she concentrates. This morning, our treasure trove of finger puppets discovered while packing to move, she laughed and flapped her arms and pulled a duck, a coyote from Peru, and other new friends off of her daddy's hands and held each one, inspecting it very carefully. Our beauty is already cultivating an internal life, one where she mulls things over, watches things move, and often turns away from whatever is going on so that she can create space for herself to consider, focus, and learn.