It's been deliciously cool the last couple of days, with a soft breeze from the southwest persuading a low ceiling of breaking cloud overhead.  It's a welcome suggestion of the coming change of season.

At home, the seasons are changing, too.  Andrew is becoming more and more of a toddler.

Before our evening walk, I persuaded his sweatshirt on over his wriggly hands, and then rolled his socks up to his knees.  In the kitchen, as we waited for his mother, he sat on the floor and contemplated the overlong sleeve hanging over his hand with a wry smile.  I eased myself to the floor facing him, and glancing up into my face, he grinned and flung his hands, the sleeve, his arms and shoulders in a wild gyrating arc while he chanted happily.  With a shocked laugh, I returned the gesture and chant.  Thrilled, he replied in turn.  His bright eyes fixed on mine, mouth open in a static expression of glee, we exchanged silliness on the hard brown floor.  Once full of this game, he stood, awkwardly rising to his feet in that strange toddler way that's led by the bottom, walked to me, and grasped my hands.  His soft fingers closed on mine, and they gently but insistently brought my hands together in a clap.  Then apart, then together.  Celebrating our game.

Libby walked into the kitchen, and it was time to go.  I rolled up his awkward sleeves, and hoisted him off the floor.  Together, the three of us walked out into the sweet gray night.