Motor Control

A baby discovers the joy of movement

Photo by Kelsey Breseman

I think my baby is learning to hug. Maybe it was an accident, but today when I held him high on my shoulder, his arm wrapped around the back of my neck and squeezed. And this evening, as he lay nearly sleeping on my belly, his draped arms curled rather than just hanging, for the first time.

He's not very good with his arms. Limb control generally: pretty much flailing, so far. His kicks are so strong I keep expecting to find bruises on the backs of his heels (I remember the bruise on the inside of my belly). But the arms just wave about uselessly in the air most of the time.

You're meant to give your baby "tummy time" every day so that they learn to raise their head, hold up their torso, work towards crawling.

We haven't been very good about this. Until last week, the baby hated it. You put him on his belly, nudged his arms forward... he drew them back, faceplanted, and fussed until you picked him up. He was simply not interested.

He likes airplane time. His neck has been strong since his first day of life, and Robert discovered that the inversion calms him. So that's how we play: I lay on my back, baby balanced on my shins. He laughs. He drools. He opens his mouth in a huge, gummy smile, and chunks of white spit up slime out.

He spits up less when he gets burped after a feed, but it's hard if he's too sleepy, or sometimes he's on and off the breast so often that I forget.

Other times, there's no missing it: he's suckling contentedly, and then all of a sudden, he's stressed—inconsolable until he's jostled into a loud release of air. I imagine it's like when a lump of food forms in your throat: there's no choice but to swallow it down.

But just as I've had to learn techniques to burp him (swaying chest-to-chest to articulate his spine), he's getting his epiglottis in order. He doesn't hiccup like he did as a newborn, and I'm always proud of him when he burps by himself.

Everyone will tell you that your kid grows up fast; three months is a literal lifetime. I can't believe how far my palm has to travel to stroke the length of his back. He's more robust than he used to be. We can play more. As Robert keeps repeating, amazed, "He's so aware!"

One day, the baby starts staring at his hand. Proprioception—the sense that tells you where your own limbs are—must be kicking in. Flailing becomes grabbing. He doesn't know how to reach, but if you put a cloth on his arm, it will soon be in his mouth.

The mouth, according to the neuroscience book, has the most sensation of anywhere on his body; his fingers won't catch up until he turns one. But although the fingers don't have all their nerve endings yet, the grip gets stronger. He grabs my hands: he wants to suck on my fingers, not just his own. When he learns how to stick his tongue all the way out of his mouth, he spends the next two days in dedicated practice.

Baby takes exercise seriously, kicking hard sets with a concentration frown. If he's propped into sitting, he'll crunch forward, trying to hold the pose on his own.

Suddenly, tummy time is fun. He lays on the floor, or belly to belly with me, and swims. He gets absolutely nowhere, but he wants it badly. I admire his faith that these motions will have value one day.

And they will, soon. The baby isn't rolling over yet, but he lifts his feet in big pikes that sometimes dip sideways. We look away and back and he's pivoted. One time, at night, we discovered him laying on his side.

Locomotion is coming too. Already, kicking baby doesn't stay where he's put. It's undirected, but his back-lying flails drag him over ground.

Baby can wiggle on the floor alone, but everything is better with attention. He teaches his tiny fingers how to tangle in the fabric of my shirt. He stares at my face.

I lay on my back and chest press him close, far away, close, far away. I touch my cheek to his nose and he laughs and laughs and laughs.

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