Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Repressed Memories of Crawling

Wikipedia defines repressed memories as: a hypothetical concept used to describe a significant memory, usually of a traumatic nature, that has become unavailable for recall; also called motivated forgetting in which a subject blocks out painful or traumatic times in one's life.  God gives this to moms as a gift.  If we remembered these times in full detail, humanity would have ceased to exist long ago.
Reed going mobile at
Poppy and
CeCe's house
I remember Bruce crawled for a long time as a baby.  I remember that he was cute and mildly mischievous. I remember he was given names like “Turbo Baby” because he crawled so fast.  His fast crawling made the atmosphere of my great uncle’s funeral less heavy and sad.  Husband chased him in and out of the chapel and throughout the funeral home for the entire service.  Further, during the playing “Taps” and the flag folding he managed to filch my mother’s car keys, press the right button and make her alarm sound. 
Ahhh.  The nostalgic memories of a precious and dear young life discovering his mobility and exploring the fascinating world around him…..
He's laughing at me here
That’s how I remembered this time in the life of a baby and I LIKED IT THAT WAY!  I really liked the idealized version.  Now that Reed is crawling, so many hideous and embarrassing details are now SCREAMING to the forefront of my consciousness. 

He’s EVERYWHERE.  He’s everywhere ALL AT ONCE!  I believe he must have some sort of bionic powers.  I’m not physically or mentally prepared for this journey.  And neither are my dogs.  They were pretty geriatric when Bruce was in this “precious stage.”  Now that they’re practically circling the drain, their tolerance for being chased and poked is almost nil. 
That's a great place
for a baby's hand
God, I’m convinced get huge HUGE laughs at watching us endeavor to care for and keep our crawlers safe and clean.  Each day we awake with the hope we can keep the baby clean for a good portion of the day.  But truly we know that there’s not a chance. 
Relentlessly I scour the floor all day long looking for things he could put into his mouth.  Hastily I remove them.  But I fail to move everything.  Here’s some of the things I’ve removed from his mouth. 

Mostly yesterday:
·         The dog bowl
·         His dad’s flip flop (GAG!)
·         Paper
·         A plastic hanger
·         A matchbox car
·         His brother's back pack
·         A penny (my personal fave)
Because we (Husband) were late on baby proofing; recently I’ve caught him throwing pills from the medicine drawer and then smashing his fingers in said drawer repeatedly.  We’re remedied this however, so don’t call CPS! 
I clean the floor daily and by mid morning he’s wearing my inadequacies on his blackened hands, knees and feet.  Husband started to remark about this the other day.  Wisely, I believe he made a comment about the weather instead. 
He's managed to perfect transporting toys as well.
Next he'll form an alliance against me with the dogs...
My mother says that you have to eat a peck of dirt before you die.  I’m sure she’s right.  But what about dog hair, laundry lent, bugs and paper?

No comments:

Post a Comment