Dearest Danjo,
Right now you have one goal in life: to run.
You don’t walk. You don’t crawl. You don’t even roll over. To my mind, you are doing nothing to achieve your goal.
Other than flailing your body out of my lap, organizing screaming protests until you are placed in a standing position and trying to take off running by launching your body out of my grasp.
Right. Other than that.
Look, honey. You’ve gotta do the work. Things don’t come easily in life. Unless you’re gorgeous. Which you are, but that gift only applies to the life arenas of employment, getting a drink at the bar, getting out of speeding tickets or free shots of vanilla in your latte. Not to walking.
With walking, the playing field is leveled. We all had to start flat on our backs and work our way towards bipedal movement. Apparently, you believe yourself above the laws of physics.
Having had a child, I know what I'm asking for when I say this (and yet I still say it): I wish you could just walk already.
Holding you as you bounce and flail and lunge towards your sister, discontent with your position in life, is exhausting. Seriously. Last month, you were happy to sit on the floor, playing with whatever we threw your way: toys, dirty diapers, tin cans, lint. The past week, you don't want to sit by yourself, but you don't want to be held. Or at least not in the traditional sense. You don't want to stand or jump in your exersaucers either. You have a precise configuration in which you like to be held. Feet on the floor, supported in a standing position, facing away from suportee, with said suportee's hands under your armpits, NOT holding your hands or waist. Position from whence arm flapping ensues.
Maybe you're not trying to walk at all! But, fly!
In which case, I don't mind being worn out. If I have a flying baby at the end of this month, how awesome would that be? I could put you on YouTube and we'd make an appearance on Good Morning America, even though I'd prefer your live public debut to be on the Today Show (but there might be real news on that morning that Ann Curry is covering). And then I can write an inspirational memoir about the struggles and joys, the double edged sword of having a flying baby.
Man, Danjo. You BETTER be a flying baby. My future of psuedo-stardom depends on it.
Other less glamourous news for posterity's sake: no teeth yet, but teething; ear infection last week; you're loud; you give the BEST hugs when I pick you up; you try to burrow in my chest for no particular reason (you're not trying to nurse); you laugh when I tell you that you're in trouble and when I sing "La Bamba."
I really, really, really hope you're a flying baby. But, it's okay if you're not.
I love you no matter what.
Mommy
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