Portrait of the Artist as a Little Baby

Last week, armed with a battery of distracting toys, Baby D and myself ventured to the cinema for a charmingly entitled “Babes in Arms” screening.
“Babes no-where near arms wriggling about in lap would be more accurate,” I thought as I tried to restrain a squirmy Baby D who was determined to practise his speech: “Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
The women beside me had perfectly mannered little boys and I couldn’t help but overhear them compare how great they were.
“Little Michael weighs 20 pounds now and is growing out of 6-9 months clothes already and he’s only 5 months!”
“Little Danny is the same! And you know he’ll be crawling before long. The other day I caught him trying to move forward just before he rolled right over!”
“My sister sent me an art book for babies recently. Little Michael loved it so much he started to cry when I put it away. He just loves the stimulation!”
Hmmmmmmmmmmm. I smoothed down Baby D’s 3-6 month t-shirt as he chewed on a sock. He’s not a great fan of trying to crawl and ends up with his face squashed into the mat gasping for breath after a few seconds. He can roll over, but only on soft carpets at Granny’s house and spent a large part of yesterday inspecting a crumpled up piece of newspaper. The latest thing he’s learned to do is stick his tongue between his lips and go blubblubblulbblub” at speed, spraying spit all over the place. Should I be worried? Nah. After all he’s clever enough to wait until after I’ve loaded a spoon of food before blowing the biggest bubbles.
“Heh heh heh HEH HEH HEHHHHHHHHH!” shouted Baby D thirty minutes into the film until I got the hint and left, leaving the rest of the babies resting serenely in their Mammys' arms in peace. I had an idea for when we got home. I’d sit him in front of the wall of his new bedroom, feed him some spaghetti bolognaise and let him spray paint the wall. Who says he isn’t talented?