Frankenbaby

As you may know, Grady spent last year in a funk.  No, he wasn't touring with George Clinton, he just wasn't himself.  Call it the winter-blues, or dark-times, but he wasn't too healthy (read: active).  Consequently, the hold button on his development didn't click "off" until last fall.  Since then, he's been progressing like a wild man and now, finally (big announcement music): he's walking.

I should say "walking."  Grady A) is the most cautious baby ever, and B) knows how to manipulate his parents.  We've received texts from daycare and family proclaiming, "Grady just walked across the living room!!!" "Grady's skipping rope!" and, "Grady just beat me in a foot race!" but when we get him home, he half-heartedly recreates his earlier feats.  Maybe he's worn out from all his showing-off, but I suspect he realizes if he fake-cries for long enough Mom and Dad will either leave him alone or pick him up.  We've caught him doing his Frankenbaby walk across our kitchen, but as soon as we acknowledge it, he drops to one knee.  Walking?  Me?  Nope.  Please hold me.  I may have pooped myself.


Last week, at Julie's, we were eating our cowboy lunch and Grady was playing in the other room.  As we were finishing up, we looked up from gorging ourselves and in strolled Grady.  He was turning corners like Dale Earnhardt Jr. and walking like a man on a mission.  Of course, we erupted in cheers and when he spotted me, a proud grin on his face, he tripped over a chair and took a header.  We hoorayed and whistled and someone at the table threw their chonies.  And from over the din, I heard one little voice -- Dylan's.  She was just as excited as the rest of us and in her exuberance she quoted one of today's wisest and most thoughtful poets: Ke$ha.  "Throw some glitter, make it rain," Dylan screamed.

I was so proud of them both.