chasing babies

As the Stainless Steel Amazon's fiance, the Poor Bastard, has taken on more responsibilities (YAY FOR HIM!) I see the Goonybird less. I had him 24/7 in his infancy, and during the days after that, then two days a week, and now one evening each week. The less I see him, the faster he grows up.

A little boy is entirely new territory for me. I had no brothers, I raised no sons. The only little boys I knew about were two young cousins, who were not entirely human so I don't think that counts. Unfortunately, they made a very deep impression on me. Consequently I always search my grandson for developing feral traits, which is both unfair and stupid. But I still do it.

Following the instructions to the letter, my cousin's parents had money, owned a house, car and boat, and mom stayed home to raise her kids (that last probably a large part of why they ended up being psychotic, rabid weasels.)

The Goonybird's mommy rents, works outside the home and attends college...and sometimes other people watch her child. The Goonybird is not a rabid weasel. In fact he does not resemble any member of the mustelid family. He is a sunny, happy little guy. He still eats stuff off the carpet, but now he avoids things that obviously aren't food, like tacks and paper.

The difference is, the Goonybird has an excellent mommy who loves him. The weasels had a couple of raving drunks who didn't even like themselves.
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Now that the Goonybird is three years old the baby traits are fading away. I admit; I miss that. He was such a cute little chuckle duck, and way more portable too. He is becoming an independent little person of his own now, and he's heavier and kicks harder. But like his mother before him, he is becoming a very strange little person. Just in a different way.

His mommy liked to play with lettuce. I could crack off a leaf of iceberg lettuce, hand it to her and she'd derive hours of entertainment from it. Wear it on her head, lie on the floor with it on her face, sticking it to the TV screen, slap herself on the tummy with it, stick it down the back of her diaper; she was a happy camper. The Goonybird is not interested in lettuce. The Goonybird would rather cook firetrucks in his Teflon frying pan with pepper and water.

His mommy was mildly intrigued by the contents of her potty but was content to slosh them around and sing them songs.
The Goonybird went through an intense 'brown period' , during which he explored feces as an expressive medium. He developed a preference for vinyl flooring as a support, having experimented variously with the carpet, the television screen, and the inside of the tub.

His mommy was perfectly content to wander around crusted with drool, partially masticated carrot, fuzz, hair, lint, stray candy bar wrappers and bits of string. She had distinct adhesive qualities, in fact. Instead of vacuuming you could just roll her across the rug.

The Goonybird has an absolute COW if he makes an accidental mess. His entire world falls apart; he starts screaming for a towel. Not that he won't paint his head green in art class; he is his mothers son in that respect. But that's intentional. That's different.

His mommy was born with an Imelda Marcos gene. She and her father got along like cats and dogs a lot of the time, but send the two of them shoe shopping and they were of one heart and one purpose.
The Goonybird loves his barn boots. Them, and only them. He will take a fit if he cannot wear his barn boots. There is no other footwear in his world than the barn boots.
The last time I gave him a bath he went right to the barn boots, grabbed the towel for a cape and marched around the house naked announcing "Flying man! Flying man!'
Apparently you cannot fight crime without barn boots.