|"Time to get up, mama. I've got PLANS."|
Onward to more pleasant things. A week after his first birthday, The Monk took his first few tentative steps. He's lurched around on his feet before, but it always seemed to be by accident; this time, the boy was WALKING.
The best part of me was filled with love and massive pride, because my formerly wriggly, flailing baby was making proper progress. He toddled along the carpet, arms outstretched, Cabbage Patch Doll smirk on his face, absolutely thrilled with himself. It was beautiful. The lesser part of me? Well.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF FUCK WILL I DO NOW?!?!" quoth the lesser part of me. The part of me that relies on flail-time in order to have a bath. The part of me that feels the need to do housework uninterrupted (admittedly, that part took very little silencing). The part of me that said "Oh, it's alright, we won't need to buy stairgates/childlocks/other assorted barrier devices just yet!" It's all bullshit, my friends, because you always need the stairgates/childlocks/other assorted barrier devices, even when all they do is lay flat on their backs. Especially when your child is drawn to electrical appliances like a moth to a sodding flame. I get the feeling that our blogging adventures haven't even started yet, kids...
The Monk's also taken it upon himself to act as Trampoline Monitor at toddler group. He's had a long-standing love affair with the trampoline since the start, and he wants everyone to know about it. He adores it. He crawls under it like a more realistic Bear Grylls. He runs his pudgy little hands along its brightly-painted curves. He smooshes his face into its tight, springy floor... I'll stop there. Moreover, he wants the others to show his bouncin' belle some fuggin' respect, to treat her like a lady, and not like some elasticated plaything. Otherwise, he's forced to take action... and I'm forced to document it through the medium of hastily-taken iPhone pics. Enjoy. Or not. It's up to you.
|"Hang on. What's going on with my trampoline?"|
|"Let me get my fucking pump truck."|
|"Make the most of it, girlfriend. You won't be on here much longer. Prepare to eat crash mat."|
|"I FUCKING WARNED YOU! DON'T MESS WITH MY TRAMPOLINE, BITCH!"|
I do love that boy, even if he has insisted on squawking like Hell's own parakeet for the past bastard hour. Honestly, I've never met anyone - man, woman, child-creature - who feels the need to make SO. MUCH. FUCKING. NOISE. before. It's like having tinnitus. I swear, if I can stay awake long enough, I'm going to camp by The Monk's cot tonight and unleash the loudest "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH" I can muster. Right in his little pink ear. All night long. The neighbours will complain, the dog next door will bark, the police will probably be called, but I don't care. Gabriel will have Learned A Lesson.
Or I could just buy earplugs.