When the little man was just a few weeks old, he started grabbing my hands so that I could help pull him up to his feet. He’d then proceed to take the aptly named drunken sailor steps and, most of the time, he’d start from my belly and end up walking on my face. It made me extremely happy and he also seemed pretty damned pleased about it. I was convinced that I had a super baby on my hands (and face).
As I dreamed about the fame and fortune that was sure to come, we continued our training and with my help, he was soon able to wobble about on his feet for a pretty good distance. If measured in baby feet, which I’m sure is a valid unit of measurement, I think he sometimes trekked two and a half baby miles.
As he got older though, he started to lose the will to walk. Sure, he’d still like to stand up and see how the weather was from such lofty heights, but he was no longer really interested in extended hiking. It seemed to coincide with him figuring out how to roll over and starting the process of learning how to crawl. My super baby was no more…
A few weeks ago, Popeye learned the gentle art of high pitched shrieking. The dog is a huuuuuuuge fan (false) and I find it adorable (true), when done at appropriate times (extremely true). Note to baby: Two-thirty in the morning will never be an appropriate time. He has started pairing this amazing discovery with what can only be described as scooching. This is the act of pulling himself across the floor by any means necessary, while babydozing everything in his path.
So he is now on the long path to learning how to walk. Eventually the scooch will turn into the worm, the worm will turn into a crawl, the crawl will turn into the butt-scooch and finally, the butt-scooch will turn into an ungraceful form of walking. Popeye will soon learn to walk.