Despite some threatening poses, Ezra is still not technically for-real crawling yet. He rolls, he scoots, he hurls his not-entirely-under-control torso towards the edges of furniture while I desperately lunge for his ankle like a clawless bear batting at a salmon, but he is definitely not yet achieving true forward propulsion with a purpose.
(People like asking you if your baby is doing such-and-such yet. Usually because it's a skill THEIR baby mastered two months before the milestone chart said he should have mastered it, and they know this. Also because they are assholes. No, my three-month-old isn't saying "Mama" yet, what the fuck? Yeah, and my four-month-old still flops over sideways if you try to make him sit up on his own. Which I do. While yelling "TIMBER!" It's a teaching tool.)
(Honestly, Ezra has taken his time on most of the big motor-ish milestones like rolling over and sitting up and...I don't know what else he's "supposed" to be doing now. Second children definitely get the "ehhh, fuck it" benefit on this stuff, plus a better appreciation for how simple life is before mobility is attained.)
(Not that Ez isn't brilliant in his own brilliant way, or anything. He waves and sort-of claps and likes to have conversations with you involving nothing but tongue-clicking. And he's pretty good at pulling up on anything that cannot actually support his weight, requiring constant rescue from underneath empty hampers and baskets and this one plastic piano thing that I THOUGHT was designed for the pulling-self-up set before quickly learning otherwise oh CRAP. So that, and eating. He's very good at eating. His appetite is enormous and his palette is adventurous. His tray-to-mouth coordination is impressive, his pincher grasp is wise beyond its years, his spoon skills are...well, a tad Ted Striker-like still, but you've gotta respect his ambition. I am already planning his future in competitive eating. Your days are numbered, Kobayashi!)
ANYWAY. Not crawling yet. He came extremely close last night, while Jason and I watched, waiting, anticipating, my fingers inching towards the camera while Ez pushed up on his hands and knees and rocked back and forth, his eyes locked on a toy a few feet away. His knees made their move and...
BAM. His arms forgot to do their part and he toppled over, face-first into the floor, just BARELY missing both the blanket and the pillow we'd arranged around him for just this very purpose.
And because I am a very concerned mother who sleeps with a milestone chart under her pillow and Googles "hardwood floors baby brain damage class action lawsuit" pretty much DAILY, I laughed at him. Then I picked him up. And fed him some Indian food. For dessert he ate a dill pickle.
Today, though, I learned another important and humbling lesson: Just because your baby isn't technically mobile doesn't mean you can't lose them. I learned this lesson when I lost the baby. In my bedroom.
Noah was playing with Max (our sainted, patient cat) on our bed; Ezra was on the floor with a bucket of plastic blocks. I went downstairs to start a load of laundry and was back upstairs within five minutes or so. Noah was still on the bed (though the cat had apparently had quite the fuck enough and fled) and the baby was...
...not where I'd left him. At all. Or anywhere nearby. I stood there for a second, turned around, then back again, scanning the floor like I was looking for my other shoe.
"Ez...ra?" I called out. (What, doesn't YOUR 8-month-old say, "Over here, Mother! Present!" when you call out his name? No? Ohhhh. Well. I'm sure he'll do it in his own time. *headpat* )
Not getting a response, I questioned the three-and-a-half-year-old, and was informed that Baby Ezra was hiding. (Everything, though, that is not currently visible to Noah is "hiding." His shoes are hiding. His lost toy that he simply cannot go to sleep without is hiding. His butt is hiding, etc.)
Just when a variety of horrible scenarios started flashing through my head (stairs! toilet! dingoes!), I heard a muffled squawk of indignance coming from under the bed. I pulled up the bedskirt and. Yep. There he was. Halfway under the bed, juuuust past the point of comfortable arm's reach, and from the looks of things he'd propelled himself backwards the entire way.
And because I'm an asshole, I laughed at him again. And he scowled back at me, which was awesome. He might not have the crawling thing down quite yet, but he's already growing up into a real little person who has already had enough of my shit.