Fridge

When I was home with James he had a regular routine in the morning.  I would put him down on the floor and he would make the rounds from the cat food to the stove to the laundry room (usually focusing on the washing machine, but that's likely because at the time the drier we had wasn't very interesting but the washing machine had a very interesting clear front.  He'd do that loop two or three times until he was satisfied that everything was as expected, then do his own thing.

Daniel has a routine too, but it's less structured.  He'll almost always make right for the car-seat bucket and grab hold of a fox (whom I've dubbed Foxy Loxy) that he got for Christmas.  That's the start and a frequent stop any time he passes by.  Without fail, though, if the fridge doors open, bam he's there like a shot.  And if the doors should close before he gets to them it is an absolute tragedy.  This morning, for example, he was in the family room playing with his walking table thing that Al and Irene gave him for Christmas.  I opened the right door to get out an egg and just like that he was down on all fours, crawling as fast as he could to check out what I was doing.  He was halfway across the kitchen floor when I closed the door and it was like watching a breaker hit the beach.  His face went from excited to red and miserable in a second.  Poor little guy.

I felt so bad I opened the door back up and just like that, all was well again.  He made the rest of his way over to the fridge, grabbed the handle for the freezer drawer, pulled himself up and started doing his happy half-jumping.

Of course I had to pick him up before I closed the door again.  I had to give him something in order to make up for closing the fridge door on him.