#08 – "FUCK NO"
PAPACITO #08
Apparently, the first year of having a baby consists largely of parents getting ridiculously excited while waiting for the next developmental milestone.
When will he roll over?
When will he start belly crawling?
When will he crawl on all fours?
When will he pull himself up?
When will he walk?
And then, when something finally happens, we're so fucking proud.
LOOK! HE ROLLED OVER!
LOOK! HE'S BELLY CRAWLING!
LOOK! HE'S CRAWLING!
LOOK! HE'S STANDING UP!
LOOK! HE'S WALKING!
We cheer him on. Lure him with toys. Film videos. Send them to relatives. Marvel together at how wonderfully our little human is developing.
Looking back, I have just one question.
Why the hell did we want him to learn how to move?
Before all this, you could put the toothless troublemaker down on the living room floor and, a little while later, you'd actually still find him where you left him.
God, those were the days.
Nowadays, our standard greetings are pretty much:
"No"
"Don't touch that"
"Not that way"
"Not in your mouth"
"Not the dog's bowl"
and
"FUCK NO"
Movement started with belly crawling.
And he was good at it.
In his own peculiar style, but good nonetheless.
The toothless troublemaker spent a long time belly crawling and, more importantly, doing it really fucking fast.
Then something happened that I doubt they mention in the child development guides at the maternity clinic — not that I've actually read any of them. My wife usually tells me what we're doing, when we're doing it and where we're supposed to be.
One day, he happened to be crawling around naked.
Everything was going as usual until, halfway across the floor, something made contact with the cold surface.
Stop.
Confusion.
Another attempt.
Same thing.
Eventually, the little guy sat up and began carefully inspecting his arsenal, apparently trying to figure out what the hell kept dragging along the floor every time he tried to move.
I don't know what conclusions were reached during this research project, but suddenly crawling on all fours started looking a lot more appealing.
That's my boy.
And that's when things really got going.
First, he crawled.
Then he crawled a little faster.
And now he crawls at speeds that would probably earn him a speeding ticket in a residential area. So if the living room suddenly goes quiet, don't waste time wondering why.
You should already be running.
It wasn't long before he started pulling himself up against furniture. Then came moving sideways while holding onto things. From one end of the TV unit to the other. Along the sofa. And nowadays he can even clamber onto the sofa himself if he uses a small step as an intermediate stage.
So for the past few days, the toothless troublemaker has had a new working title:
The Termite.
Movement is medicine — a phrase that has made one of my eyes twitch at an increasingly unhealthy rate over the past few days.
Oh no, it fucking isn't in this case.
Movement has mainly been a pain in the ass lately.
I heard that JVG song on the radio this morning — nearly drove into a ditch.
The Termite has also made me realise that he and I see our home in completely different ways.
To me, the TV unit is a TV unit.
To him, it's a route.
To me, the sofa is somewhere to sit down and relax.
To him, it's a climbing frame.
To me, a dining chair is a chair.
To him, it's perfectly suitable equipment for pulling himself up to stand.
Except our dining chairs swivel.
He's learned that too.
Several times.
When a tiny human pulls himself upright, puts his entire weight through his hands and the thing he's leaning on suddenly decides to rotate out from underneath him, the physics lesson is fairly brief.
The latest one left him with a bump and a bruise on his forehead.
The bathroom floor squeegee presents the same problem. Naturally, he absolutely has to try pulling himself up against it. It leans against the corner and, for some strange reason, wasn't designed to function as a baby handrail.
He's already face-planted because of it several times.
But never mind — Siberia teaches.
Try again.
The cupboard door under the TV unit works on roughly the same principle. There are board games behind it, and the door has a soft-close mechanism, which means it won't stay open by itself — or at least not for as long as the Termite would like.
This occasionally causes an immediate personal crisis.
And if he does finally get the door open and decides to use it for support, it may come as a surprise to discover that the door moves.
The remote control on the coffee table is naturally more interesting than every toy we've ever bought him.
The plants on the TV unit are even more interesting.
And if the dishwasher is left even slightly open, it is basically the Holy Grail of our household.
I have no idea how babies know exactly which things they're not supposed to touch.
But apparently the information travels efficiently.
Of all his targets, however, one stands above the rest.
The bathroom.
The Termite basically has a permanent route there.
Primary objective: the floor squeegee.
If he doesn't make it that far, the toilet will do.
We've started keeping the bathroom door closed, because apparently our role as adults in this household is to constantly stand in the way of another human being achieving his dreams.
If he can't get into the bathroom, the journey usually ends at the dog's food bowl.
If that's been lifted off the floor, the water bowl is always — and I mean always — next.
The route never changes.
The only variable is how far through the level he gets before Papacito catches him.
GAME OVER.
Player is picked up and returned to the starting point.
A moment later, another attempt.
There is, however, one minor flaw in the system.
If Mamacita or I happen to be sitting on the toilet, he has to pass the toilet door to get to the bathroom.
So I deliberately leave the door slightly open, allowing me to see if the Termite decides to make another run for it.
Sounds like a solid system.
And it was.
For a while.
These days, the little guy activates Super Crawl Mode, blasts past the toilet, stops at the doorway and looks me straight in the eyes.
A smug little grin appears on his face from underneath his brows.
Then one hand reaches for the edge of the door.
SLAM...
Door closed.
Then all I can hear is the fading thump-thump-thump of crawling as the suspect flees the crime scene in Super Crawl Mode towards the bathroom.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting on the toilet with my trousers around my ankles, listening to the tiny criminal build up a head start.
"FUCK NO"
There's really only one thing capable of competing with the bathroom in the hierarchy of forbidden treasures.
The dog's bone.
I have no idea what kind of radar has been installed in this child, but he can detect a dog bone from what appears to be about a hundred metres away.
And if one happens to be lying on the floor, his already ridiculously fast crawling somehow discovers another gear.
Target acquired.
Ass up.
Giggles begin.
AND HE'S OFF!
If Papacito doesn't manage to beat the little guy to the end of the level this time, the prize naturally goes straight into his mouth.
Because what could possibly be better than a slightly used, pre-softened dog bone?
The funniest part of all this is that this is exactly what we wanted.
We wanted him to learn how to belly crawl.
Then we wanted him to crawl on all fours.
Then we were thrilled when he pulled himself up for the first time.
And now we spend most of our days trying to stop him from using the very skills we were so fucking proud of him for learning.
He's getting better at moving every day.
I'm getting better at running after him every day.
Apparently, walking is supposed to be next.
I no longer want him to learn. Not in any fucking circumstances.
This time, I think I'll skip the encouragement.