The Scarecrow and The Con Man

It's true.

Almost seventeen months old and Jane still won't walk.

It's not that she can't. She just thinks she's the world's greatest con man -- and perhaps she is.

Lane and I have the sneaking suspicion that she can walk just fine, but chooses not to for the sheer enjoyment of watching us squirm.

Last month, when she would still plop right to her tush when you'd set her down on her feet (refused to stand on her own), Lane discovered her diabolical secret one Saturday after nap time.

He stood in the doorway, unnoticed, while Jane stood quite independent in the middle of her crib, balancing and deftly bending up and down to pick up toys. Two minutes into this, she turns and sees Lane standing in the doorway. She promptly fell forward grasping for the rail with a panicked look on her face.

Unfortunately for her, she realized the jig was up. That day she started standing every time you put her down on her feet.

Now she's trying the same thing with walking. Last night, when she and Lane played in the front room, she stood up, walked over to the TV to get a better look and stood there for some time before she turned around, saw Lane staring at her, panicked, faked a wobble and went gracefully to her knees. (This is what she does, she doesn't fall when she attempts to walk, she slowly bends down with full control to her bum or knees.)

Hopefully she realizes the jig is up here too.

Because, despite what the nosey old women at the grocery store think, I'm not setting her down to butt scoot across the parking lot into the grocery store. That wouldn't teach her anything, except that Mommy would be investigated by CPS.

But this brings me to another point: She's losing her baby status.
I've started calling Elliot "the Baby". I know, about time.
I feel like a shoddy mom. With Jane, I knew everything she did. I knew when she first cooed, exactly how many hours she slept and played and when she first flashed a smile.

Elliot flashed a smile the other day and I realized: He's been doing this awhile. When did he first start?
Hopefully he can forgive me someday, because I'm trying. Really, I am.


It's like when I go to the doctor and he asks me how many wet diapers Elliot has in a day. With Jane, I knew the answer without thinking about it. With Elliot, I sit there for a full minute thinking "how many is he supposed to have?" and "If I change him every time I feed him and I feed him every three hours, accounting for longer sleep at night, how many times is that?"
And then I sit there longer as I try to do math.
Which brings me to my real point of this post: It is a scientific fact (scientific in that I am using myself as unequivocal proof) that motherhood kills off brain cells.
At least mine.
I sat there for 3 minutes yesterday trying to figure out a math problem posed on children's programming on PBS (12 minus 8 ... I know, pathetic).
And so I echo the Scarecrow's wish: If only I had a brain.