This is Lily. At merely eight months she was already walking and at one year Aunt Casey, balancing her by both hands, takes her for short sprint-running bouts. She’s a strong kid, and this is probably why I didn’t hesitate to sweep her up and carry her in my arms. I am usually pretty uncomfortable with babies, especially newborns who appear especially fragile. With my arms folded awkwardly, I will hold a baby as though suffering an acute and premature onset of rigor mortis. But the helpless little thing realizes my discomfort and typically cries out for release before anybody actually needs to call an ambulance to revive me from the stress-induced heart attack that is sure to follow a baby-hold one of these days.
Time and time again, I have been told that babies are robust, that they can be carried and punted around like footballs. I refuse to believe this and don’t plan on finding out for myself. But from the looks of her, I think Lily could be tossed around like a Hot Potato and she would be just fine.
Maybe this is why Casey calls her Lily Potato.
