The doctor weighed you and measured you and looked in your ears and looked in your eyes, and oh, she said, what's she doing? Crawling, I said, and eating and pooping and laughing and standing and pointing. Pointing? the doctor said. That's BIG. That's language.
But then we left and you cried and cried (all those shots; your week-old cold; your days-old bellyache), and I bounced you up and down. Oh birdy, I said, what's the matter? But you just yelled and yelled, and words meant what they might always mean: little more than what they weigh.