Laughing stocks are up

You practiced laughing all day. Staccato giggles and coughing guffaws, accompanied by equal parts naivete and skepticism. It didn't matter whether something was funny, or ironic, or so tragic that you had to laugh or you'd cry. You were simply engaging a new vocal movement. Not testing its practical applications so much as kicking its tires, putting it through the paces. This laugh will come in handy some day, you're quite sure of it. Just not sure when.

Sure, it happens naturally when your mom makes the crocheted giraffe stampede all the way from your feet up to your face. It also happens naturally when your dad takes a warm washcloth and scrubs your neck, armpits, hands, and feet. But there are more uses, you're quite certain. Just need the practice for now.

Laughing, rolling, piggy banking

Your laughter filled the nursery's calculatedly humidified air. It was the first time during waking hours that you laughed aloud. Before, your mom only heard you laugh in your sleep. Funny baby dreams. But this week, the idea of breakfast struck you as broadly hilarious. That, or your mom's breast is comedy gold.

Later, your cries filled the nursery's tightly regulated sixty-eight degree air. It was the first time you'd pushed yourself up during "Tummy Time," leaned determinedly to one side, and rolled onto your back. You were stunned into silence. But the tears came, and your mom and dad placed you on your tummy again.

You were dedicated in church on Sunday. Your mom and dad brought you to the front of the church, ascending the steps to the stage. Before everyone could hold their hands up to pray, your mom handed you to Pastor Mark, and you threw up.

Uncle Paul and Aunt Beth arrived with a Chinese Year of the Tiger piggy bank. Tiger bank, rather. Paul would look at you and say, "Oooh, oooh." Beth patiently waited then played with you quietly. You cried a lot during their visit, and before he left, Paul placed a quarter in your piggy bank.