Monday, 20 May 2013

The world is my coffee table

I see his expression change as it dawns on him that I'm actually going to stop him from standing on the coffee table.  What a dreadful mother!  Climbing onto furniture is ace, right?  So why on earth would I ruin his whole life like this? Tsk, where's that Childline number when you need it?

His little face shifts from triumphant wonder to confusion to utter desolation in as many beats as I stand over him wearing my stern face.

His first strategy is to squeeze his arms as close to his body as possible so that I can't get my thumbs under his armpits.  I suppress a smile at this stubborn pose and manage to wedge them in somehow.  Foiled, he resorts to the "dead weight drop", relaxing every single muscle in his body at once (except for his vocal chords) to plummet directly towards the sharp corner of the table.

But I'm ready for him.  I brace myself and hold him firmly around the chest with both hands. Outmanoeuvred again, he opts for the "twist-twist-scrunch" followed by a quick "plank of death" and finishes his salvo with the "ball of fury".  He nearly breaks free but I hold fast and lift him from the table. He senses defeat but tries one last "plank" and head butts me in the face.  

He reaches a vocal crescendo that ebbs away to silence as his lungs run out of air.  I carry him away from his Everest, face frozen in his wail until a deep breath is sucked in to prepare for another tsunami of sound.

The only place to put him is on the floor and so I lay him down gently taking care he doesn't bang his head. He kicks me in the boob.

I go to the kitchen to seek refuge in a cup of tea.   His sobs die down to nothing and I sneak a peek into the room.  He's pointing out of the window and sees me looking.

"Tree!" He shouts with glee! "TREE!"

And with that the coffee table is forgotten.