Man of Action

Toby likes to substitute actions for words. He's got words- believe me, when he's chatty it seems like he's going to break into some Kanye (clean version) or Rilke any second. (Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?)

But the action words are my favorite. He's yet to say "flower" but will sniff vigorously whenever he sees one. He doesn't say cat but can meow with the best of them, and "firetruck" brings on a very serious siren. "Rabbit" is a wrinkly nose, and he's yet to say "milk" but has the sign language down pat. (That cow-milking gesture is so flattering to breastfeeders, don't you think? Then again, what's the alternative- a frat-boy radio dial type move?)

For music, which we almost always have playing (shocking, I know), if something catches his fancy he does this thing that looks like a cross between the Cleveland Indians chop and a conductor giving limp ictus-less downbeats. (Is he mocking Teri Murai? Man, I like to hope so.)

Yesterday I prompted him to dance for about the millionth time and he started doing these odd little half-squats. Through all of these he's a straight faced boy, with the occassional bottom lip protruding in concentration.

Maybe he's the prototype for the dance man, my favorite short movie put together by one of the contestants in On the Lot.