Verging on 18 months of age now, our boy has officially eschewed his high chair at meal time.
He's a booster-seat-boy and his mother and I couldn't be prouder.
Well, we probably could be. It's gotten rather disgusting how often we exhort his daily accomplishments of the most trivial sort. (Thankfully, it's mostly just to each other. We would become social pariahs if the sheer volume of blandishments we foist upon our son were to become known.) This then leads me to the fear that our next child's successes won't be nearly so impressive to me and Amy.
"What's that Dear? Number Two just recited Hamlet's 'To be or not to be' soliloquy to a rapt audience of the dogs and the neighbour girl? That's nice. Call me when she's got General Relativity figured out. I haven't been impressed at ALL this week. Her fourth birthday's next week for goodness sake!"
But in the meantime, watching our son eat with a fork (in his left hand!) while sitting in his booster seat has been cause for all sorts of pathetic adulation.
And also sort of along the same lines as the post title, I am grudgingly coming to dislike my Boxer dog a little less. She's not quite as annoying as she was for the first couple months and is starting to exhibit the sort of behaviour that lends itself to the hope that she will some day be a respectable member of our household.
You can't really dislike a 6-month old pup warming herself in an October sunbeam while the neurotic Jack Russell noses around.