Come on, man.
Help me out. Please.
I know you are pulling up and you're super excited about it. I am too. Really. I'm giddy as a schoolgirl at the county fair. Or a Taylor Swift fan at Claire's. Except, maybe not so much on the TV stand please? Or on the back of that chair that always tips over on your face, literally every single time you try to pull up on it. It has never, not once, NOT tipped over on your face.
I know you're focused on this one thing right now.
But can you please do something else?
Just for like a minute?
I have like a huge list of shit you can do other than pull up, fall down, hurt yourself, and scream.
Like, literally everything else in the world is on that list.
Pick your nose and eat it.
Hit your brother.
Start a fire using tin foil and lead paint.
Rob a bodega.
Pour maple syrup in your hair.
Genocide is on that list.
(Genocide is not on the list. Don't even think about it, extremely young man.)
This is the reason I haven't been blogging as much. Or doing anything else except follow you around, pry open your fingers from around the lip of a drawer, and carry you back to the soft, padded ottoman that is exactly the right height for pulling up on and was in fact purchased for this exact purpose. But NO. It doesn't matter what I put on that ottoman to entice you - your brother's favorite dump truck, crunchy butterflies, a Fisher Price cell phone. You're like Fisher who bitch? Gimme them draws. You don't even straighten your legs when I lean you up against the faux-leather cube. You just sink back to the ground and rolls yourself over to hands and knees, and you make a fucking beeline for those drawers on which you have pinched your fingers 47 times in the last 8 minutes.
The second I sit down you crawl up to me and try to pull up on my leg. One of your cooked-noodle legs gives out suddenly (and yet, not suddenly, because this is every fucking time) and you smack some portion of your face or skull on the chair leg.
I move you back to safety and frantically wave toys in front of your face. I engage in the scariest fucking over-caffeinated screaming peekaboo anyone has ever attempted in written history.
Yeah, like that. Except faster, 4 octaves higher, and with more teeth.
Buster, I know you're just working on your shit. I know that the more you pull up, the sooner we will emerge from this hellish hellscape standing upright as God made us on the fourth day, or whenever. (Because you can't spell evolution without "EVIL." Try it. You can't.)
I will be so in love with this quality of yours when you are able to safely move your body through space without floundering and bouncing off of blunt objects, like a dinged-up air noodle man who bears a striking resemblance to Shawn Wallace.
When you're 12 and stay late at practice because you want to make the team, I will love your tenacity.
When you're 25 and you meet the person you want to marry, I will love your balls-out pursuit. (Except, balls-in please, son. With dignity.)
When you're 30 and your 8-month-old is driving you fucking crazy, I will laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and go to sleep knowing that you will never give up on teaching that baby all he needs to know about how to stand on his own two feet.
Tenacious B, even when you are 2.5 like Chicken is right now, and you throw down with the biggest tantrum of all time because I tell you that you have to stop doing your puzzle and come to dinner, there will still be a small part of me that loves, loves, loves your focus, your butt-crazy toddler tunnel vision.
But right now. Dude.
PLEASE STOP HURTING YOURSELF.