Last Saturday morning, Elijah was particularly bored. Mostly because I had barricaded his access to the TV, stereo, dog dish, cords, knives and antique pistol collection. The only thing left open was his greatest baby challenge to date: the stairs. Mount Stairmore. Until this point, Eli hadn’t even made it to base camp before his little chubby legs got too tired or a responsible adult yanked him to safety.
But as I laid on the floor deciding which TiVo-ed Simpsons episode to watch, Eli made his preparations for the ascent. He had on his pajamas with the rubber footies. He had a full belly of milk and several Cheerios stuck in his hair. He had a giant furry black Sherpa.
He tentatively climbed the first stair and stood looking at me with his patented, “I’m doing something naughty. Pay attention to me” look. Instead of removing him, I positioned myself behind him and said, “Ok. Let’s see what you got.”
Slowly but surely he ascended to the first landing. Grover bounded up and down the stairs and I had to say loudly, “Yes, Grover. We see you. You’re very good at climbing stairs.” I actually got the impression that Eli was psyching himself up for the second half of the climb.
About halfway up the second half he toppled over backward into my arms. But we didn’t count that.
He pushed forward and made it to the top of Mount Stairmore! Because Diana was still sleeping, I whispered, “Yay! You made it! You’re the best baby ever!” Eli celebrated by slamming the baby gate in my face.
No comments:
Post a Comment