It’s killing me, but I’ve got to say it:
I think my kid might be weird.
Boo spent last weekend with Red’s parents, where apparently he lost all ability to simply walk. This form of locomotion has proven too boring for my budding young weirdo, so now instead of placing one foot in front of the other to propel himself from one place to another, he hops. Like a deranged Easter Bunny. On uppers.
Do you have any idea what kind of havoc a hopping two year-old can wreak? It’s ungodly. Things get knocked over. Toys get broken. Heads get bumped. In a span of about five minutes tonight, he managed to knock over his juice, tear the door off his new “skoo bus” and practically knock himself out when he ran headlong into a wall. And yet, none of this phases him. He just hops on, occasionally yelling, “HOP! HOP! HOP!” at the top of his lungs. I can do nothing but stand back and watch, wincing because dammit, he’s two and I still haven’t managed to cover every surface in my house with bubble wrap and foam rubber.
My mom, beacon of all shiny, fuzzy things, assures me that this is just a fascination he’s picked up and that he’ll tire of it quickly. I tend to believe her because, well, she raised three kids and all of us turned out relatively normal. If what she says is true, at his age, I was even weirder. Or more precocious, at least. I had a collection of Little Golden Books I would thrust into the hands of anyone who happened to wander into my peripheral vision. Long story short, those books became the bane of my parents’ existence.
But like I said, I turned out okay. I may have recurring dreams about zombie apocalypses–like every other night at this point–but that just means me and my spawn won’t have to worry about chopping each others heads off. And so yeah, every time I hear a loud noise outside, my first thought is always, “Oh shit! Dinosaurs!” but that’s because I’ve seen those evil spitting bastards kill Newman in Jurassic Park about six thousand times.
I’m a functional adult. For the most part.
So I’m going to try not to worry about what other children will think about Boo when he starts preschool in a few years. I’m sure he won’t be hopping around by then. (Sweet Lady Gaga, I hope not…) And I’m confident he’ll be smarter than the other children (or at least the other children’s dogs). If he takes after my little brother, he’ll also be better than his peers at sports.
Or he could just be a normal, middle of the road kid. That would be okay, too. As long as none of those little punks make fun of him, we’ll both survive his childhood. Because I’m not afraid to crack some preschooler skulls. That, or scar them for life by convincing them that they’re all going to have to battle either a Dilophosaurus or a hoard of zombies in order to get into the last spot at that damned parochial kindergarten.