This Is Not The Model I Ordered

Just an fyi: Emperor Justus has now taken up Kamikaze style dive-bombing.

Here’s how it works.

Justus sees something he wants…but, alas, it is a frustrating three to four feet away.

He slowly leans forward, inching toward it, as if he is preparing to make the crawl. As his leg scoots across the carpet (or the bed), he pauses…as if suddenly struck by just how much work crawling is.

To cut the process short, then, he propels himself forward, thrusting his 20 pound bowling ball shaped body into oblivion, in hopes of landing on top of said unreachable object.

It is as if he has been studying flying squirrels and is certain he’s mastered their technique.

So far, Justus’ methodry has acquired him a total of zero objects. He has however, in a variety of compensation packages, face planted into a berber rug, a 3-ring notebook and a bed post.

At which point he of course is outraged. Not that he has body slammed himself and incurred who knows what kind of harm, mind you. But that he still does not have the object of his desire.

This brings out fussy Justus–the underbelly of our usually remarkably pleasant little one.

He scowls. He pounds the floor.

I just stare at him, doing my best to muster a convincing confused look.

“Hmmm.” I say, “I just don’t understand it. I don’t remember ordering a fussy baby.”

I shake my head, looking disappointingly at the mis-shipment sent to my name.

“I could’ve sworn I picked out the happy baby model.”

Then I set Justus on the closet shelf and pretend to look for this happy baby. I look under clothes, behind belts, in shoes.

This makes him laugh.

I stop what I’m doing  and look over at him grinning–wielding all six teeth in a giant drooling grin.

“Oh, here it is.” I say. “This is the model I was looking for.”

I pick him up and pretend to read his model number outloud, declaring this 6-or-8 digit serial number the best kind of baby there is.

And I  take him home with me.

What? You, the very logical reader, says. You make up elaborate games even though your baby doesn’t understand English?

Yep. That about sums it up. And if you think that’s crazy, you should hear my daily annoucements that all the dogs named Wrigley need to attend a mandatory emergency meeting in the backyard (Well, its the only way I can get him to go out when its cold).

Oh and for more baby trickery, see my previous post on those darn faulty vocal chords.