Wednesday, September 5, 2012

My baby is a bulldozer.

     My baby is a bulldozer.  She is 11 months and 24lbs. of sweet, chubby, drooling determination and CAN NOT BE STOPPED.  Fireplace hearth?  Why ashes are delicious!  Outlet plug?  Why not… the plastic is so soothing on the gums!  Stairs?  Hell yes!  Nothing gets me scooped up faster!  Random crap I find on the floor after Mommy has thoroughly (or so she thought!) swept?  Mommy’s fingers are so delightfully chewy…
     Truthfully, I don’t know why I bothered to “baby proof” anything.  Note the quotation marks.  I don’t know what “baby” these safety companies are “proofing” against, but it ain’t mine.  I mean, she’s not drinking Windex from under the kitchen sink, but she can rattle a baby gate like a lifer in Rikers.  She plants those little chubby feet, grabs that sucker in a grip that would make a grown man blanch, and shakes it harder than beagle shakes a bunny.  It is an amazing thing to see… and frightening.
     And her poor brother…  He is small (but mighty!) for his age and she is probably the reason why he has learned to climb so well.  (My husband and I have speculated that some random traits from our ape-ish beginnings have surfaced from deep within his genetic code.  Nothing like a Vestigial Tail, mind you, but he has some crazy climbing ability.)   If he is anywhere near the floor he is considered prey, and no amount of twitching or frantic squeaking can dissuade her from crushing him to the floor with her Sumo-like lunges.  So, not unlike our early ancestors, he has taken to the heights for survival purposes.  With only 8 lbs. difference between them and her gaining inches and ounces daily… well…   Darwin’s finches have their beaks; my son has the ability to cling to the back of the couch like he is made out of Velcro and stick-tights.  That should keep him safe... for now.

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