Okay, okay. I know just a few days ago I waxed on about how I don’t care if and when Elijah starts walking. But now that it’s eminent, I want in on the act.
Eli is pretty good at what I call the “Drunken Scooch.” He’ll hold himself up on chairs or footrests or any other baby level furniture and, well, scooch around, off balance like an Irishman after the Jameson factory tour. My apologies to Irish people everywhere for such an unflattering generality.
He is also great at the “Fart Walk.” It’s not what you think. It’s when he grabs onto your fingers as balance and, well, you know, walks. And probably farts.
What he is still working on is the getting from point A to point B without holding onto anything.
So I’ve been trying to bait him into walking. When he is practicing his standing, I’ll sit about two feet from him and call to him like I do Grover. “Come ‘ere. Eli. Come ‘ere little buddy. You’re ever so talented.” In the dumbest voice I can muster. He usually gets excited and inches himself to a fingertip length away from his safety place.
At which point he’ll launch himself at me and crash into my arms. Not technically walking. It’s more like advanced falling. But he squeals with glee, and, of course, I yell like a lunatic at how unbelievably talented he is.
What can I say? Someone somewhere praised a C student enough that one day he became President.
p.s. According to today’s photo, I’ve officially turned into Archie Bunker.
p.s.s. Dear future Eli. “Archie Bunker” is a reference so old I barely know what it means.
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