Its official. We’re raising Edward Scissor-Baby. This morning I woke up to my husband threatening to pull Justus’ fingernails out if he continued his head gouging, which has become his favorite nighttime ritual.

Every time we see a little red niche on his melon, we break out the filer and try to grind those little nails to a more peaceful existence.

Its like disarming a missile.

Unfortunately, Justus seems to be the only baby out there who was born with retractable claws. I can picture him laying in his crib, watching the mobile, saying “Go Go Gadget Talons” before chiseling a little bit more out of his own head.

I suppose I could be upset that he’s picked up a thing for self-mutilation so early, but I prefer to attribute it to his talent. He’s one of the world’s up and coming sculptors, I think, whose trademark will be his flailing arm technique.
 
Or perhaps he’s trying to communicate by scratching baby hieroglyphics into his scalp. Each new symbol stands for some future career field consideration, no doubt. The one by his mouth? Dentistry. The one on his forehead? Nuclear physicism.

In addition, Justus is also the Amazing Rolling Baby. (I know, I know. Its hard to believe there is so much intelligence and athleticism in one 15 lb. human being, but there is.)

For days, it was not even a complete roll. It was a half-roll. Onto his side. So that his head can turn downward (as if to smother himself), while the rest of his body remains sideways, rocking back and forth like an upside down turtle trying to build up enough momentum to flip. There is a lot of grunting involved. Very intelligent grunting, you understand.


Then one day, he did it. A 180 degree roll before his audience’s eyes. That was immediately followed by five more rolls.

I proceeded to get out the video camera and captured about 90 minues of him not rolling at all.

Unfortunately the sparkly red camera distracts him from his performance. We’re looking into a camouflage camera next.


The rolling always begins with a kick into the air. Usually it is a left-foot kick, which my husband studies with eager anticipation, hoping that he will be a left hander and therefore a shoe-in for a pitching spot on the Major League Baseball team of his choice.

Lefties are better odds, he says. A lefty would be more likely to provide us with a cushy retirement. Although if that doesn’t work out, I’m sure the sculpting or nuclear physicism will get us through.


Line up to kiss his feet (his left foot), world.