We are taking bets on the exact day Jackson will start walking. Actually, I have taken a bet with myself and written it in my usually-quite-empty day planner — July 15. If I win I will take myself out for ice cream. Jack doesn’t seem interested in betting; he’s not into performance pressure, or whatever you call it when men can’t get . . . up and go get their own beer, so they ask you to do it, since you’re already standing in front of the refrigerator wondering who’s going to make dinner. Unlike your not-quite-toddling son, who gets around faster by crawling, who needs both hands for crawling — he could carry an open beer in his mouth like a dog, I suppose.
(And he’ll have a sip of yours).