My back is begging Bronson to jaunt on his own strength, stability and skill. Just walk already! I know he’s only 9 months, but since he’s neglected the art of crawling, I’ve decided his days of lollygagging on his rear must come to a close. Quickly.
So I give him moving targets.
I stand him next to his dresser. He grips with the tips of his fingers, and then I do it – I present the bait. Often it’s Elephant dancing on the chair. Sometimes it’s a pinecone or food. (The two are often confused.)
He shifts from foot to foot and hand to hand and slowly moves from the dresser to the chair, only to discover the target migrated to the heater. (The heater that is safe for him to touch.)
On those occasions, he flashes me a face that says what-kind-of-mother-does-this-to-her-son and just-help-me-damnit. But I just grin back, and his eyes sparkle. His lips smack. His feet jitter. And he moves.
It turns out the moving target is a challenge, not an inconvenience.
All of life is a moving target, a constant state of change, a bleak absence of arrival. And most of the time I just want to whine about it – sit on my butt and let out a desperate, pathetic cry. But maybe the target is always moving so that I’ll grow, and if I embrace it as an exciting challenge, it might not turn out so bad.