Upon this tidal wave that crests (week 2 of life in a pandemic for a 7-month old).

The snippets of joy that skitter through shadows and sunlight.

A seven-month old drools as he assesses the latest news about the pandemic.

There may be families that are getting through this pandemic without occasionally - or frequently - wondering around in some combination of diaper, underwear, and/or shirtlessness. Those families may exist, and I pity them.

A pandemic at 7 months old.

A boy moves across a room with a violent throw of the head to one side; beginning from flat on back, the force of the violent motion propels the tender flabby mass to advance, sideways, a few inches. Strung together, a series of these maneuvers leads eventually to a complete circumference of the room. It is magic and science to behold.

A boy sits alone on an island; an island consisting of a blanket on a rug in a living room. There is less a fresh breeze and more than wafting of various humans and baked goods drifting through. There is less the whistles of dolphins and south winds and more the sounds of Duke Ellington and fellow siblings trumpeting and carousing around. Alone he sits amidst the chaos, and is content to be isolated and alone. Sometimes for up to thirty seconds at a time.

A boy breathed himself to sleep; a sleep that was as deep as it was long; which is to say it was long in the sense that Napoleon is historically thought of as being tall. Which is to say that it was neither a long sleep nor a deep sleep, though I would have settled for either. When did this happening happen, you ask? Pick a day. His metabolism appears to be paying homage to my own, in the sense of fighting to grab every lucid moment of a day possible and avoid slumbering whenever possible.

A boy lay next to his father. The former swaddled by the latter, and a selfie was taken. Both appearing alert and in no need of slumber. Ten minutes later, one was dreaming.

A boy leaps on his father’s back. He is seven months old. He dangles by his arms, fashioning himself a formidable figure as he trots around, helping his father out with various activities. His father’s ability to do certain activities is affected, to some degree, by the fact that he is holding the boy with both hands. But they are together, and occasionally the boy spits up or poops on the father. It is a day.