A New Era

Yesterday, as I tried to make my way to bed, I stopped in the middle of brushing my teeth to take a long hard look at myself in the mirror. The whites of my eyes had turned an angry shade of crimson and I had a fierce welt right above my right cheekbone where I had been pummeled by a marching baton earlier in the evening, not long after having two devastating kicks to the groin. I also had fingernail marks gouged into my nose. My shirt was torn near the second button from my beltline and a fresh vomit stain covered my left shoulder, flowing down my chest and into my pocket. Six or seven years ago, one could guess with a fair chance of accuracy that my romantic advances had been violently spurned by a drum majorette whose stomach could not bear the thought of seeing me naked. These battle scars did not come from a young lady exercising good taste however, they came from a nine-month-old baby boy who is just learning how to crawl.

This new ability surfaced over the weekend and life has taken on a new sense of urgency ever since. Not only is my son now mobile, he moves at a velocity that is nothing short of astounding for a child of that size. He now spends his days chasing the dog (who has learned to give him plenty of room or else loose a handful of fur that will surely be excruciatingly ripped out of his sensitive posterior regions) around the house and pulling little items such as lint, pieces of metal, hair pins and tape left over from the Christmas presents out of the carpet so that it can be taste tested. When he’s not looking for a non-organic appetizer he’s doing his best to capture, and immediately drool all over, his sibling’s playthings much to their overt horror and disgust and his hysterical delight. His upper body strength has increased dramatically, demonstrated by his almost samurai-like ability to wield his sister’s baton. His legs have also become quite deadly, both strong and accurate, and he tries to show this off with a swift kick to the family jewels every time I try to pick him up. I’ve launched spit out of my nose on several occasions after being kicked by him and was once even brought to my knees, on the verge of throwing up.

Before long, he will be trying to walk. Having been through this twice before, I have learned some things that should help get me through this most trying period of child development. Namely, when he finally pulls himself up for the very first time and then tries to take those very first tentative steps on his own, it’s important that he be tripped immediately. The more devastating the fall, the better. No child should walk until they are old enough to be reasoned with and understand what the phrase, “No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! That can !#$%&*@ KILL you!” means. I’m guessing that comes in somewhere during the 5th year of a child’s life.

So, now I spend a large portion of my day getting battered, bruised and brutalized by a baby boy for doing nothing more than trying to keep him from killing himself. Granted, making unwanted advances at majorettes might make for more riveting reading but any success gained from such an endeavor is usually fleeting. Successes gained from parenting last a lot longer, oftentimes forever. It is rare that a tryst with a majorette will give you anything that lasts forever, unless it is herpes or immersion into the joys of parenting a lot sooner than you had expected to.