The fridge, at least, is off limits--"That's an adult door!"--but I have a little helper in the collection of considerable clutter in all other corners of our humble abode. The boy must have over a thousand toys strewn in various outposts around the house, some draped in dust and cobwebs. If I ask him if we can get rid of some of his stuff he never plays with anymore, his answer is predictable. Not only does he refuse to yield his stash, he even wants to hold on to each and every spent battery that's popped out of his DC-powered toys. Occasionally I'll sneak something out to the trash if it's beyond repair, or find a place to donate it if the toy might yet pique the interest of another child. He hasn't busted me tiptoeing out to the trash or noticed anything missing yet. I imagine that if I dared look hard enough under his bed, the place where he bulldozes all of his belongings on the rare occasion when he "cleans" his room, it would be like a free trip to the toy store thanks to all the things we would rediscover. Things that, despite not having been played with in months, he would never consider giving away.
I do have a 2T Hines Ward replica jersey to honor the one for the thumb*, but other than that I haven't kept any of his clothes, not even the cute little flannel footed PJs. If I ever did dare a recon mission under the bed and found an old pair of jeans lurking there from the days when clothes were measured in months rather than years, I would hand them down without a second thought. I can guarantee two things about those hypothetical pants. First, they would have an adjustable waistband. The straps, pulled to the tightest setting, would dangle all the way down inside the legs. Noah might've been a better name for the boy. If you put him in pants that actually fit his waist it appears as if he is preparing for a flood. His pants are always cinched up like a Hefty sack, but, as I look down to see how my waistline has expanded in my middling years, I suppose that's not such a bad problem to have.
Nowadays the knees in his pants survive for two weeks, tops. He is fond of building up a bit of steam and sliding across hardwood floors on his knees, and the boy spends the bulk of his day scuttling back and forth on his leg joints overseeing various construction projects (Legos, wooden blocks, train tracks--if you can build it, he will come). But the second thing I can guarantee about that hypothetical pair of 6-9 month jeans from years ago is that the knees will be good as new. When the boy was a baby, he didn't crawl on his knees at all, but rather his hands and feet, thus sparing pant knee fabric from wear and tear. I've heard it called bear crawling and pushup crawling, but to me Silas's style most resembled a ghost crab, the kind beachcombers illuminate with flash lights on midnight strolls. Rather than lumbering to his den like a bear, Silas hurried and scurried about with great speed, like the next toy he was after was the safety of a sandy burrow.
You see those commercials on TV with the parents, trendy new recording device in hand, catching baby's first steps with looks of unimaginable glee on their faces. I had that look. But what they don't show you in those commercials is the aftermath. Junior's increased mobility leads to louder sounding thuds, as junior now falls faster and from further up than he did when crawling. Junior's new perspective also leads to a whole new round of baby-proofing, but the worst side-effect of this walking experiment is that junior is...gone. A few days ago you could set the little booger on the carpet, go hunt the remote or maybe hold your nose while you pull your favorite beverage from the fridge, come back, and there's junior, right on the carpet where you left him. Take your eye off the little booger now and you're putting out an APB. It's like a daddy bird returning to the nest with a nice mouthful of regurgitated worms only to find that the chicks have flown the coop. They don't develop this walking skill to not use it, so just when you think you're past the worst of it--the sleepless nights and all the times your shirt was used as a barf bullseye--baby steps run you ragged.
Silas, perhaps owing to his crab crawl technique, achieved the joyous milestone of walking at an early age. (It was nine months and four days, but who's counting?) He was already on his feet, and it didn't take long for him to start pulling himself upright on couches and coffee tables. All that's left is to let go. During his first "Look dad, no hands" moments, he wobbled like a tightrope walker, arms outstretched for balance. He would take a step or two on those baby bowlegs, then cling fast to the nearest support as he mustered courage for another attempt. He had taken a step or two in this fashion hundreds of times, but it wasn't until he took six full steps, away from the wall he had been using as a crutch, that I considered it his first walk. I was on the phone almost before his rump, cushioned by a mound of ill-fastened cloth diapers (I wrap babies about like I wrap presents--poorly), hit the hardwood floor.
"Silas is walking!" I exclaimed to my dad as the boy sat with a bemused look, legs stretched out in a V. "Six steps without holding on to anything."
The boy pulled himself up and went back to work on walking. I was his destination, so I crept backwards, trying to encourage him to beat his personal best. Eight steps. Thump. Ten steps. Thump. The next day we were off to show the grandparents, and four days later he was running. RUNNING.
And I am forever playing catchup to my little ghost crab.
* For the sports challenged, "one for the thumb" refers to the Pittsburgh Steelers' fifth Super Bowl victory (and the championship ring that comes with it).
No comments:
Post a Comment