He cries occasionally. He drools frequently. He flails madly and flops front to back. Each day, hundreds of inanimate objects enter his slobbery maw and are subsequently annihilated.
If he wanted, he could rule the roost. He needs but a single lightbulb moment.
As a parent, my responsibility is to stay one step ahead. If I keep him off-balance and constantly guessing, I win the roostership.
That’s hard to do.
Today, my secret weapon is the outdoors. The moment we leave the front door, he assumes an over-stimulated, halfway-traumatized expression. His voice fails him. His eyes get large. His mouth drops open. A temporary paralysis sets in.
(The drooling continues. I know this from the intellectual sucking noise that permeates the air behind my head.)
While we’re outside, I blow his mind. I attain the godlike qualities of a burdened Sherpa bound for Mt. Everest. He has no recourse but to sit back and be enthralled by the suburban wonders bumbling past.
This, of course, can’t last.
One day, he’ll find his legs and discover that mobility is its own reward. The backpack will lose its wonder and I’ll be left without a superpower. As with every arms race, the balance of power will shift back and forth. To quote the Indian Chief in Peter Pan:
“Sometime, you win; sometime, we win.”
My advantage is being able to think ahead. I’ve got the next 18 years of mind-blowing weaponry all planned. Each weapon has a window of maximum effectiveness, but I think the overlap works well.
Backpacks (4 months - 7 months)
Jogging strollers (7 months – 1 year)
Bikes (1-3 years)
Go-karts (4-12 years)
Cars (13-16 years)
Jetpacks (17-? years)
Escalation. Nothing like it. Besides, no other spending excuse comes close.
It’s for the kid.
Until next time,
- Daniel
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