A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

It’s Never a Lazy Boy

I knew the day would arrive…some day, preferably just before my son is about to leave for college.  By then one would hope he could navigate the situation without shuffling off this mortal coil.  I am, of course, referring to his new found ability to climb on and off the sofa.  While I can delight in his cheerful disposition at his accomplishment every. single. waking. minute, I believe my physical symptoms in response to his independence leap might indicate something contrary.  Among the most routine symptoms I experience that are clear expressions of my sixteen-month-old clearly not fully grasping gravity are as follows:  shortness of breath due to my son’s precarious positioning backward on the edge of the seat cushion; palpitating heart every time he unsteadily stands; erratic gasping with the intense need to clutch nearby furniture for support in instances when I realize that I am across the room, and it would be impossible to grab him in time before he plummets to the floor; and finally a pounding head that only abates when Little Man is asleep.  In the meantime, I assume treatment requires bed rest with ample dark chocolate within easy reach for someone with horrible vision.

I knew he wouldn’t always be so little as to not see over our coffee table, but I never quite envisioned him tall and determined enough to sit like his parents on our tattered sofa.  With pride I can say that often, after much work, he will sit nicely looking up at me with beaming eyes enjoying a book in a reclined or upright position.  There are, however, a smattering of moments when the little jerk gives me a, literally, demonic laugh as he exhibits an all consuming urge to tumble over the cushions, narrowly missing an unswanlike dismount onto our hardwood floors.  True, we moved our coffee table, but it still feels like little consolation, especially when he likely will plummet over the back.

Naturally, Mr. Man is oblivious that his mother considers him too young for stiches.  Perhaps he has dreams to be a pirate, and figures he requires a generous start in looking dangerous.  Whatever his ambition, if I can make it though his waking hours with little more than additional tufts of grey hair, I deserve an award.  After all, if the sofa doesn’t kill him, it might kill me…

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