September 2019
My son can’t fucking crawl.
He is so incredibly frustrated by it. All he wants to do is move on his own and he just can’t quite figure it out. So he whinges. A lot. Don’t worry, the irony is not lost on me. Here I am whingeing about my annoying, whingey son in my Diary of a Whinge Artist.
Wait. Is that irony? Or is that just unfortunate? What is irony? The fire station burning down is ironic. Is me whingeing about my whingey son ironic? The dictionary says ‘the expression of one’s meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect.’
Ok, so not ironic? And not funny either, but I’m getting sidetracked.
Anyway. So he sits, he reaches for things and when he can’t get them, he whinges. In his defence, he tries really hard and he is so damn close but he just can’t seem to get over the line. Sorry kid. Try harder. He also has a massive head, which is apparently common in babies who don’t crawl. Their necks are just not strong enough to hold up their massive noggins, so they skip crawling and go straight to standing. That way, their whole body handles the weight of the the bowling ball they’re growing on their necks. His head is in the 97th percentile of babies his age. Big head. Let’s hope that means big brains and not big back pain issues later in life.
Want to read more?
Yes! Just shut up and gimme the link already!