Your mom spreads a small blanket on the Berber carpet, the ceiling fan propelling on low overhead, the Samsung's screen a matte black for now. You're placed on your belly on the small green blanket patterned with white, five-pointed stars. Marzipan's paws disappear underneath her as she contemplates first her roasted-marshmallow fur, then the curve of the rocking chair's rockers, then a small bug resting on the bookshelf, somewhere between An Incomplete Education and Norman Rockwell's America.
Arms straight, back arching, neck turning your head left and right, you're suddenly quite unhappy. It's "tummy time," and tummy time is not a happy time.
Your mom arranges small, cotton-stuffed toys just beyond your reach and asks you to crawl. You kick your legs at the knee like you're dog paddling in a pool. You quickly note the lack of locomotion this creates, and this frustrates you. Your dad, in a follow-the-leader fit of inspiration, begins crawling circles around you. Which frustrates you. In a last-ditch effort, your mom takes your arms, your dad takes your legs, and, pseudo-marionette-style, they begin moving your arms and legs in a crawling motion, crawling you across the living room floor from the TV stand to the piano bench. You watch, intrigued, and frustrated.
Your mom and dad stare at each other a moment. They stand you up on the floor in front of the couch, your round feet stamping with excitement, your fingers tightly gripping the tweed cushions. With your dad's hands gripping your waist like a Double Double With Cheese, you begin to navigate this small area with a fiery smile on your cheeks. This is more like it, you seem to be saying. Now that you're done wasting everyone's time, dad.
Small circles of drool darken the couch between your hands, and your dad recalls something your grandpa Dale wrote to him recently:
"You, Randy, of course learned how to crawl, but were too lazy to do so. Jessica's knees never touched the floor. And my nickname was 'Scooter'; my knees never touched the floor either. So stand her up at the coffee table and let her walk. Forget about 'tummy time.' "
Your grandpa Dale, who earned straight C's through high school--but now owns a strip mall and flies to Hawaii to accept top-seller awards from Century 21--doesn't believe you have to crawl before you walk.
