Boo is a regular little walker. I’d show you the videos but I’d have to upgrade my account. If I had evidence that people wanted to see videos of my baby walking, I’d do the upgrade, but at the moment this log of my existence exists in relative obscurity.

I’m eating oatmeal cookies. Like you care. Even though I’m supposed to be cleansing. I don’t even really like them, but they’re there. And they probably have less of the bad stuff than Oreo’s.

So, boo’s walking like a champ, but it’s still not his primary form of transportation. He just crawls too well for that. Walking’s a circus trick for him. He looks at me with this proud as shit smile on his face, pulls up on my hand (or on my leg and then grabs my hand almost as if that’s some lucky walking charm), lets go…and he’s off, hands up like a cactus, weebling wobbling away, massive proud grin on his face. Step step step step step…just a few or maybe all the way across the room or around the kitchen island until he goes boom. And then he crawls back, super speedy, for more.

Will he ever learn to take off without hanging on to mommy? Will walking ever replace crawling as his primary means of transportation? Will his exhausted mom who hasn’t had a night of uninterrupted sleep for fifteen months ever come up with something more interesting to write about than what her baby is doing with his legs? For answers to these questions and more, see the next boo report. Whenever I get around to writing it.

One last thought: I wonder if this means boo’s the kind of person who likes to practice something until he’s really good at it before he integrates it into his everyday behavior. He wants to walk really well before he starts walking. I’m a little like that. I’ve lived in France twice, well, three times if you count a delicious summer program in the Southwest when I was 15, four times if you count writing a screenplay for six weeks at my writing partner’s house also in the Southwest…anyway, I’ve lived in France a lot and what I learned about myself was that I didn’t want to speak French badly. I wouldn’t allow myself to speak badly. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. I didn’t want to express myself enough to be willing to blunder forward making all kinds of mistakes. I was very quiet for a long time. I listened, I studied, and eventually when my French was really accurate, my grammar flawless, my vocabulary large, my accent barely perceptible, I started talking. I spoke really well. People took me—if not for a French person, at least for some non-native speaker whose first language probably wasn’t French but who definitely wasn’t American. I had an American friend in Paris the last time I lived there, from about 23-26, who just talked without fear. She made so many errors it was hilarious and her accent was terrible, but she didn’t care. She just spoke French, did whatever it took to get her point across. To my learned ears it sounded awful, but I admired her ballsiness. And she eventually learned to speak very well.

There are different kinds of people in this world, and I wonder if this walking business means that boo is like his mama in this way…Is my baby a cautious person? Is he a perfectionist? Or does he just love crawling so much he’ll do it till he’s twelve…with the occasional toddle on the side?

My mom took a couple of shots...

My mom took a couple of shots...

So proud

So proud

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