Okay, so my mom is a real babe… that’s cool ‘cuz I know she’s got my genes and, I must say, she’s pleasant to look at even when I’m not having a meal. But frankly, between you, me and the bedpost, I’m thinking she’s got the jealousy thing happening. I mean, why else would she buff up her mouth bones and tart up her cheeks then dress me up with this goofy bonnet thing?
Imagine my horror when, just as the flash goes off, I spot myself in the mirror. Isn’t this child abuse? Hello 911? I need the fashion police, stat!
This is my buddy Kate. She’s the coolest… amazingly genuine, erudite and way more experienced. She’s actually chewed on meat and knows how to fall asleep without parental intervention and, let me tell you, that’s just so not me.
She wears her heart on her sleeves though… when she’s happy she squeals. And when she squeals you’d better have some ear protection….
What kind of people are these? So they strap me into this device that hangs on a doorframe and expect me to be amused by the fact that I’m laying down vertically with no human being to support me. Naturally, I’m terrified. I keep thinking the straps are gonna break or the doorframe will crack. Do they think I want to be hanging precariously from a doorframe? And besides, what kind of parent hangs an infant from a doorframe then backs away to take pictures?
I got this new block thing from my grand-dad… a bunch of blocks which, according to the instructions, are supposed to stimulate my pincer grasp and augment my manual dexterity. The problem is I can’t seem to get past this inexplicable urge to taste it and lick it all over. I dunno… it’s just bigger than me.
I feel like such a failure sometimes… I mean, I really want to explore my pincer grasping abilities and I truly hate to miss the milestones cuz I know the parental units are tracking them… but it just looks so gosh-darned edible that I lose my self-control. One of my colleagues at the breast-feeding clinic has a mom who is an occupational therapist… perhaps I should arrange for a consult.
My buddy Alessandro popped in for the weekend… what a blast! He’s a dynamo, honestly, AND fully ambulatory! He came in like a hurricane and interfaced with just about every toy I had in roughly 2 minutes. Did I mention that he can walk?! He’s from the big city … Toronto… a big place which, I’m guessing, must have more than a hundred people!
Ok, I’m starting to think these parental units have some kind of obsession with strapping me into things. Look at this contraption! Does he think he looks cool with a baby strapped to his chest? Does he have any idea how creepy it feels to have a fully grown male strapped to your back? I’m beginning to wonder if there are any standards for parents? Don’t they have to pass a test or something?
So, here’s my maternal parenting unit dragging me to the local toy library. That’s embarrassing enough — all my buddies seeing me hanging out with my Dear Mater at the toy lending place instead of chilling at the local breastfeeding clinic with all the other cool infants. You’d think she’d let me ride in the front of the jogging stroller, eh? But noooo… she has to tuck me into her coat, like some sort of arctic marsupial.
Having said that, and I’ll deny it if you ever quote me on this, it’s kinda cool up here… feels like I’m five feet tall instead of being knee high to a porcupine and stiff-necked from looking up all the time.
Did I mention I have no teeth yet?
I’m not worried about it yet but my mom is a bit stressed over it… but have you seen her mouth bones? She’s got a huge smile that is all teeth! Looks great, really… but I’m a bit worried. If I’ve got her dental genes what’s going to happen when those larger-than-life pearly whites start protruding from my teeny little gums? I’m afraid I’m going to look like Bugs Bunny’s girlfriend!
I’m so not looking forward to having a tooth…but it’s one of those darn milestones.
So I met my paternal great-grandmother which is, as far as I can tell, the parental unit of my parental unit’s unit. I know…like, don’t they ever grow up? I’m just guessing, but I estimate she’s about 3 or 4 thousand years old. I’m hoping we’re genetically similar because she’s got to be the most agile, active and loving quadri-kilonarian I’ve ever met. She seems to have more energy than my dad and he’s only a few hundred years old or so.
I have no freedom in this place… I’m comfortable eating with my feet up on the table and, apparently, this is “verboten” in my house. Are all parents this strict? “Feet, Mado!” I hear them say all the time… as if they never had feet of their own. Gimme a break…
When I get a chair of my own I’m going to put my feet up all the time …. and I will never wear shoes!