When I feed Kerrington her nighttime bottle, I always hold it for her. She's perfectly capable of wrapping those little hands of hers around it now that she's a mature eight-month-old, but then I'd miss watching her arms.
When she's drinking a bottle, Kerrington's arms have a life of their own. They lift to the sky haphazardly like she's in a zero-gravitational zone. Her fingers clench into fists and then unfold to reveal open palms. Like undulating grass in the wind, her arms move as if they are swayed by some erratic breeze.
This evening by the time she had drained the last ounce, she had tucked each of her hands behind her head as she leaned back into me, as if she were a little baby relaxing on the beach, or an unaffected daydreamer lying on her back in the grass under the open sky trying to make out shapes in the clouds.
She'll learn to hold that bottle eventually. For now, though, I'll keep that as my job.