Our lives, as we’ve known them for the past two years, are over.? Done.? Finished.? Caput.
No, my family hasn’t been diagnosed with some rare disease (although, if we were, I’m sure it would? probably be hound-dog transmitted).? Nor are we moving to Siberia or Mars, or even the foreclosed house across the street.? In fact, there’s nary a runny nose in the house at the moment (although that changes on an hourly basis around here) and? it’s not like we could sell our house even if we wanted to? (in case you haven’t been watching the news for the last year or so, here’s a tip—nobody’s buying).
What’s happening around here is equally huge, though.? Maybe huger (okay, is that actually a word?– because it looks awfully strange).? At least in my mind.? You see, our daughter is trying to crawl.? And she’s getting darn close.
Before you break out the champagne and propose a toast, let me educate you—this is not a good thing.? Not even close.?
Of course, with the first baby, you think it’s great.? Amazing.? The most spectacular thing ever to happen.? I mean, can you imagine?? A baby that actually crawls?? It’s got to be some kind of miracle, akin to the parting of the seas.? Or having the entire family sleep in past 8:00 a.m.
And then reality sets in.? You see, once the baby can crawl, the baby can get into trouble.? Lots and lots of trouble.? Okay, so maybe if you have a tidy, Martha Stewart-esque home, a crawling baby is no big deal.? But c’mom, folks—we’re talking about our home.? You’ve seen the photos, you know the chaos.? And it’s about five thousand times worse than when our son started crawling.? Why?? Because now his plethora of completely useless stuff has? mated with our plethora of completely useless stuff, and? said stuff’s mutant offspring? has taken? over the house. (Obviously we’ve been cursed, because it looks like he’s inherited those pack rat genes from my dad and I.? They really should do genetic testing for that kind of thing.? Really.)
And I have nightmares.? Scary, terrifying nightmares.? Not about serial killers or massive earthquakes (but thank you, Mr. Newsman, for sharing that tidbit of info with us? about the expected big one in California—perhaps I can oblige you with a horrifyingly bad dream sometime in the near future), or even massive blow-outs on airplanes.? No, I have nightmares about not being able to? locate my daughter, because she’s been buried alive in a? sea of papers or junk somewhere in our home.?
In fact, the idea is so frightening that we might actually have to (gasp!) keep our house tidy on a weekly basis.? And I’m not sure it can be done.? My brain just doesn’t work that way.? And hubby?? Well, I don’t even think that part of his brain existed in the first place.
Okay, so I realize she had to start crawling at some point.? It’s just that thus far, I’ve managed to live in blissful denial, suppressing that concept so it only existed as a vague, fuzzy notion in the far, far reaches of my brain.? Sort of like ironing.? And there should be some kind of age limit.? No drinking until you’re twenty-one, no crawling until you’re two.? Hmmm….maybe if I’d actually obeyed the former law, I’d be having better luck with the latter.
So, based on the photographic evidence provided below, can anyone tell me how much time they think we have left?
Exhibit A:? Okay, so technically it’s not an attempt-to-crawl photo, but it was so darn cute, I had to include it.
Exhibit B:? What, has she been watching the Jane Fonda work-out video or something?
Exhibit C:? Oh no, here come the knees:
Exhibit D:? And this one is just way to close to comfort:
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