It seems Finny's evil brother, Dr. Evil Finny has reared his ugly head. Who is this crazy baby who kicks and screams every time I try to pick him up, put him down, feed him, put him in the car seat or the stroller? If I didn't know any better, it would seem that for the past 11 months Finny had been raised by wolves in the backyard.
One minute he's so cute and cuddly, and the next, he is contorting his body into advanced yoga positions and howling at the moon.
I know that at the heart and soul of this behavior is the fact that he can't walk and wants to and he needs my two little fingers to keep his balance as he explores the house. If I try to reclaim my fingers for my own personal use, he immediately files a complaint with customer service.
He wishes he could walk. I wish he could talk.
I like to imagine how civilized our relationship would be if he could talk.
"Excuse me, Finny. I'm going to let go for a second so that I can itch my nose."
"Oh, of course, Mother! Go right ahead. I'll sit and wait patiently here for you. But do be a dear and get me cracker while I wait. Thanks, love."
Then we would embrace and tell each other how great we think the other is.
Instead, I watch as he does variations of downward facing dog and screams at the top of his lungs, looking at me as if I just murdered his seahorse.
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