My Moving Target

The garbage disposal that is my son continues his sprint to toddlerhood, with me clinging to his ankles in a pathetic attempt to hold him back.

He's 18 pounds, who knows how many inches long, now crawling (has already been into Grandpa and Grandma's TV armoire, hands among the videocassette tapes), consumes three meals of solids - two jars of baby food at each - plus four nursing sessions. He's a squealing, ravenous, solid, MOVING (pardon me while I rescue him from being decapitated by crawing under his exersaucer...) bundle of energy and grins.

I'm enchanted and bordering on exhausted trying to keep up with him - No! Not the computer cords!...

[sigh] At this point, the blanket spread on the floor is just the equivalent of the 'Go' square on a Monopoly board.

Please, dear God in heaven, don't let him start walking at the end of his 7th month like my girlfriend's first kidlet did.