When The Precious was a baby, he was happy as he sat in his little baby seat with his little baby smile and tried to make eye contact with all mankind.
When Lefty was a baby, he was happy as he sat in his little baby seat and played with his little baby fingers and toes and was perfectly content to ignore all mankind.
When Angel Doll was a baby, she was happy as she stood on her little baby seat and reached for all manner of things she shouldn't touch and seemed determined to conquer all mankind.
When Pixie was a freshly caught dewdrop, she scowled. She didn't cry or fuss or complain of a problem, she just sat in her little baby seat with a furrowed brow. This perturbed me. What troubled her?
We would talk to her and play with her and read to her and she would stare back at us, chomp on her pacifier, and furrow her brow. Was she disappointed in the family she got? Were we confusing to her? Did she disapprove of me as her mother?
We would wrap her and hold her and rock her. Stare...chomp...furrow.
I'd leave Pixie in the baby swing while I folded clean laundry. (I hoped it was clean. There were three preschoolers and a man in the house. You never know.) When I would glance at her over my stack of presumed clean towels, she'd be watching me with her brow furrowed.
Lefty and The Precious would play while Angel Doll napped. Pixie would watch them and furrow her brow.
Hunneypunkin would come home from work and greet everyone. Pixie would stare at him from under her tiny furrowed brow.
Somewhere around a year old, Pixie found her voice--her precocious, irreverent voice--and changed her major from furrowing to communicating. I never discovered exactly what it was that furrowed Pixie's brow. She's a vibrant cheerful impish teenager now, and almost as famous as Jeremy Renner, but if you're careless enough to make her angry, you still might make her little brow furrow.
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