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The King is moving. No, he’s not moving into his own duplex to have more room for his soft book collection; I’m hoping I have a bit of time to prepare myself for things of that nature – and if he’s found a duplex in London that is affordable, I’m coming with him!
On the contrary, the King is physically moving across the flat and it is altogether alarming. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing and adorable to watch him discover the world now that he doesn’t just simply sit in one place like a donut, but with this movement comes a whole host of things, the first being an incredible increase in my fatigue level. Something I did not think at all possible.
He’s not crawling in the traditional sense, not at the moment anyway. For now he pulls himself on his stomach by his arms like a marine on a serious mission and makes a series of little grunting and squealing noises as he does so. These sounds increase depending on what he has set his sights on and how fast he thinks he has to get over to it. If he knows it is something he is not allowed, he motors over to it like a caterpillar on speed (not that I have ever seen a caterpillar on speed), with a look of absolute fevered anticipation on his face.
The frightening part is like any human being that has learned he can actually move from point a to b, sitting still has become a big fat bore. It’s so yesterday apparently. Hence, when Mommy puts the King in one place like she used to, he ends up in a totally different place within seconds. I swear he practically morphs there like on Star Trek (morph, beam…time travel, whatever!). This takes some serious getting used to. Both my partner and I have had those moments where we forget he is now speed racer and we walk out of the room to talk to one another, only to find the King half way across the house about to bring one of our bicycles down on top of him.
So you find yourself negotiating at an alarming rate to accomplish the smallest of tasks. Suddenly it becomes a mathematical equation. A = I have to get dressed; B = the King is incapable of sitting still for a second and is obsessed with all things dangerous. C = how soon will I get arrested if I simply don’t bother getting dressed and I go to the market in my undergarments cause it’s just a whole lot easier?
A + B = screwed. Essentially.
So, like any good parents we’ve discovered the art of distraction, and no, this doesn’t always involve the wisest of choices. If playing with the computer cable under my supervision means that I can brush my teeth, then so be it. If the King insists on slamming a cooking pot onto the tile floor in the kitchen over and over until my ears bleed, so that I can make dinner, well, I suppose it could be worse. In fact, I tell myself I am cultivating his musical capabilities.
The shocking thing is how many things around the house that I always thought were so innocuous can suddenly become deathtraps. Like my garbage bin; seriously never thought twice about it, what could a child do to a garbage bin? Well, when the bin is metal, three times his size, and the King is determined to bring that thing down like the leaning tower of Pisa, well, I’m sure it could do some serious damage if it landed on his head. You get the picture.
Suddenly our lovely flat has become a minefield. The oven, HOT, get back! The sharp edges on the tables – severe eye damage, lookout!! The long dangling chords on the blinds on every sodding window! Holy triple choking hazard! My life is flashing before my eyes as I write this. I actually think it may be simpler for the next two years for all of us to move into a flat made of rubber. I’m sure I could make it look homey, and at least that way when the King decides he wants to body surf off the bed head first, I won’t have to sweat the landing.