Some gestures grow familiar already. Your dad wonders which ones will fall away and which ones will become you. Ones like your shuddering lip as the earliest expression of dislike, versus your cry's creaking-dungeon-door effect once you've yelled too long. Your left arm that lashes out, versus your right arm that raises up ("Do you have a question?" your mom asks). Your hands that wring together once they find each other. And lips that form an O when your sounds and stare are at their most loving.
Which patterns, your dad wonders, will inform your maturing behavior? You're restless on a couch and stare out the window. (Will dad not be teaching you how to play video games?). You're calm in a bath but talkative in the mirror. (Will a day at the spa both relax and enliven you?) You cling to your mom's neck but look over your dad's shoulder. (Will you reassure her and be protective of him?) You're mesmerized by the ceiling fan but unaware of the cat. (Are you more mechanical than humanitarian?) And dad's baritone voice soothes but his playful growl frowns your lower lip. (Dad will have to be careful of that come story time.)
Many changes forthcoming, they know. They know. But is who you are really that far from who you'll be?
