I'm pretty sure Waylon has decided to skip crawling. He's walking. Let me clarify. He can't even pull up, stand up, stand up holding on to something, etc. The kid has no balance. Nonetheless, he literally thinks he can run. We are currently lapping the house. It's exhausting...and adorable.
He takes a huge step with his right leg (usually more to the side than to the front), and his left leg comes up to meet him. The whole time wobbling and swaying and dipping. We've tried to encourage the crawl. We've set him up on all fours and even helped him move one limb at a time, but he will have none of it. Walk.
I wish I had video. You'd laugh.
My lower back and neck remind me how close I'm getting to 30 and make me wonder how older/handicapped/lazy people do this. **Not that one of those qualifications necessitates the others. Don't read into that. If you know me, you know I would never...** And Waylon's increasing enthusiasm clues me in to the impending change - this kid is fixin to be out of control. Stuff's about to go down.
After more than a couple brutal days of running in scorching heat and stifling humidity, I have decided to postpone my marathon training until, say, September. I'm hoping I'll be feeling it a little more then. Surely. Anything's got to be better than running slathered in petroleum jelly, wrapped in cellophane with a handful of cotton balls stuffed in my throat (that's exactly what it feels like to me). Oh, and with a 'flying nun' hat of tinfoil to attract the sun. Death.
At this exact moment, Waylon's snoozing, there's an Alabamasummertime thunderstorm creeping in and a stack of magazines resting seductively on my coffee table. I give in.
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