I stepped on my kid the other day. Like, full out walked right on top of her. Between bouts of extreme wailing, she looked at me like—like, well, I walked all over her. Somehow, she’ll remember this moment until she’s an adult and use it during every possible argument, moment of protest, and sporadic guilt trip. “Oh, I’m not allowed to drive. But remember that time…”
Of course, I felt awful. My remorse was met only by the fear that I truly hurt her. I breathed a sigh of relief as she went back to playing with a chew toy. (Dogs, kids, what’s the difference?)
Yesterday, she was a stationary blob who cooed and pooped. Today, she’s a miniature stunt man, climbing tables and army-crawling under my Jordans. I would dub this phase the “Back Pain Months,” as I’m constantly holding my lower back while transitioning her back to a new spot on the ground. I now look like the futuristic humanoid clutching his torso in the Advil commercials. I have a finite amount of bend-downs in my life, and I’m using 72 a day on moving her from inside the dog’s water bowl to testing the various flavors of tiny leaves near our front door.
Gone are the days of the simple holding phase—cradling a small and squishy cantaloupe that mostly looked around and slept. Plus, after three, you become quite adept at single-handed work and household chores, minus a few food and drink spillages on the baby’s head. Get the wipes!
Nope, now she becomes a micro-ninja, wiggling her way out of even the tightest grip. She just wants to go, explore, touch that thing, taste that stuff. It’s never ending, so you start to become lazy. We set up barriers, blockades and boundaries. Shut that door, position that box, build that mountain of pillows. And even then, you’re repeatedly grabbing them from imminent danger and yanking them back to the safety zone. Can you imagine that? Everything that you wanted to do all day was denied by people constantly putting grappling moves on you, all while you go slipping and sliding in footie pajamas! Now I get why they cry a lot.
This morning, I caught her smiling at me while elbow deep in my wife’s coffee. Yesterday, she climbed inside the open fridge, examining the produce drawer like a science museum exhibit. She’s managed to explore every corner of the house, acting like a human Swiffer for all the dust bunnies and discarded goldfish left behind by her sisters. Hmm, maybe there’s a business idea here? Nope, already taken.
OK, let’s throw her in the walker. She can’t get into too much trouble, right? Wrong. Ask my dogs about getting hip checked by a Playskool steamroller. My shins and toes are permanently bloodied by the newest member of Hell’s Angels Jr. She gets running head starts to plow into walls, doors and unsuspecting house guests. “Sorry you got run over, grandma.”
The silver lining to this phase of life is how tired she gets throughout the day. She lives in an infinite Spartan Race, maneuvering from one stop to the next, fighting off Goldendoodle beasts and giant ogre feet. She’s beat by 9:00 a.m., ready for a post workout nap and protein formula shake. If nothing else, she plays hard and naps hard. And every now and again, she gets stepped on. Don’t we all?