Hooray! My little man - my darling Mr Squeeze (this was the nickname given to little man, by the way, when he was only a few weeks old due to the fact I found him rather lovely and, well, just a little bit squeezable) – has finally taken his first steps. And, even though the few steps he took were a little bit wobbly (and more than a little bit heart-stopping, on my part, due to the fact that I felt almost certain they were going to end in a face-plant on the hardwood floor) they were steps he took all by himself. And, although I'm certain it's just the beginning of a very long road - the long road that will eventually see little man become an independently walking (or perhaps running in every direction BUT the right one) toddler - I'm feeling rather relieved. Why am I relieved, you ask? Well, it's not because I ever thought he wouldn't get there. But, one reason, perhaps, is due to the fact that I (his rather impatient mother) have had rather high (and probably, as usual, unreasonable) expectations in relation to this particular event. I guess this is because he has an older sibling (little madam) to be compared to. And, as she started walking smack-bang-on fourteen-months of age, and little man’s first movements (ie crawling) began quite a bit earlier than little madam’s, I was expecting that by fourteen-months-of-age (just over two weeks ago), he would have well and truly found his feet. Needless to say, I’ve once again been reminded that little man is NOT little madam, and he’s proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's going to do things his own way.
Another reason for my relief is that little man's current obsession with wanting to walk - despite the fact that he's not quite up to doing it on his own, yet - is becoming a rather tiresome, not-to-mention tedious, exercise. Not only for little man, mind you, but also for me, his doting daddy and probably (although I’m not always there to witness it) his Oma and Opa, too. Particularly at times like the other day, when we (little man, little madam, my husband and I) decided to go out shopping for a new outdoor setting. The idea behind this, of course, was so that we’d have somewhere to sit and enjoy our meals outdoors. And, at the same time, minimise some of my own mealtime despair, which revolves around having to clean-up (the floor, in particular) after little man, who can be rather messy while he’s eating (especially when rice or small bits of pasta are part of the main course). This was all thanks to a very clever suggestion that came from a good friend of mine (thanks, Hayley) after I'd ranted and raved and carried on about how much of a pita (that's pain in the a*** for those who don't know) it is to clean up after dinner.
Anyway, as we were hoping to bring home a large piece of furniture in the back of our car, we (my husband and I) decided to, foresee the potential shortage of boot space and, leave little man’s pusher at home. Therefore, when we arrived at a certain strip of outdoor furniture stores, we were forced to take turns carrying little man while we tried to browse the range of lovely - yet surprising exorbitantly priced...I mean it’s outdoor furniture for goodness sakes! Outdoor furniture that’s going to get rained, hailed, and god knows what on!!! – outdoor settings, and the like.
Unfortunately, as a result of little man’s current determination (the determination that involves him wanting nothing more than to wobble around on his own two feet holding your hand) this particular shopping expedition -where we, along with all the surrounding shoppers, were forced to endure a few rather loud tantrums from little man thanks to his desire to, not only be allowed to wobble around on his own two feet but, make his way towards every single staircase in sight; all without giving a single second of consideration to the point of our shopping expedition – was a completely fruitless exercise. And, in the end, after a flabbergasted and flustered - not to mention rather embarrassed by the attention being drawn our way thanks to little man's rather frequent and noisy shrieks of protest at having to be dragged away from all the staircases - daddy declared, “I’ve had enough!” we left the shops no closer to achieving the so-desired mess-free mealtime.
As well as the wasted shopping trips, there’s also the moments at home where little man’s desperation to walk (providing he’s got a good grip on my hand, of course) gets in the way of my near-constant battle to keep on top of the housework; including the ever-growing pile of washing that’s threatening to punch a rather large hole in the laundry ceiling if I don’t do something about it soon. And when my fear of the impending hole in the laundry ceiling eventually gets too much, and I’m forced to scurry past little man and try and ignore the outstretched hand and the adorable pleading look, I have to endure the dreaded, and exceptionally loud, whining shriek that he lets out once he’s realised his desire to hold my hand and walk has been overshadowed by some stupid housework.
I guess I can’t help but feel awful, and a little bit guilty, for complaining so bitterly about having to help little man along on his regular treks. And, for letting a pile of washing and some dirty dishes turn me into a grumbling, mumbling, eye-rolling mummy whenever little man decides to raise his hand in my direction. Because I know from experience, that I will eventually miss all those moments; all the times little man actually wants to hold my hand while he’s walking around. But in summary, all I can say at this point in time, in relation to little man and his walking ability - despite the guilt and regret I’ll inevitably feel when he’s an out-of-control toddler who’s fully capable and independent on his own two feet - is, “BRING IT ON!”
Thanks, little man, for taking me (and daddy, too, of course) on a lap of the house again, and again, and again, and again etc. Sorry, too, I often buzz past without bothering to stop and say “G’day”, but the washing is (honestly) threatening to seep under the laundry door. Love you!
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