For the past couple of months, Porter’s method of getting from point A to point B involved a convoluted form of what could only be described as “rolling”. It went something like this: He’d start in a sitting position. Then he’d maneuver himself onto his hands and knees. Then he’d straighten out his legs so that his body formed an inverted ‘V’. Then he’d flop back over to a sitting position. And, voila! He had moved about six inches in any direction. Not exactly a method that was going to set any land speed records, but it got the job done to his satisfaction. That is, until he made loving eye contact with the catfood dish. Neither Hell nor high water was going to prevent him from answering it’s haunting call.

He’d call to it from across the room. He’d lay on his belly and attempt to air-swim towards it. He’d attempt to maneuver closer by executing his patented “rolling” method, but short it of sprouting legs and walking to him, nothing was going to bring those two together. As we neared our departure for the Christmas holiday, he and his beloved were still separated by a sea of linoleum.

And so it was that on December 28th, heady off the aroma of Christmas, our little McGoo officially started crawling.

Within a few short hours of being home, we had to fish a handful of catfood out of his mouth, and then caught him gnawing on the plug of the dining room lamp (that he had so masterfully released from the confines of the outlet). For reasons we cannot yet figure out, the bathroom seems to call to him like no other room in the house. It is as though he has developed an extra sense that immediately alerts him whenever we have been careless enough to not bolt it shut. Same goes with the laundry room – or, as I am sure he calls it: That Beautiful Place Where the Golden Delicious Nuggets From Heaven Are Kept.

Staying true to my long string of desparate acts as a mother, I figured out a way to use his obsession with grazing from the catfood bowl to my advantage. By simply replacing the catfood with a bowl of dry cereal, I am able to keep him happily occupied during those times where I might otherwise be trying to keeping one child from diving headfirst into the toilet and the other from covering herself head-to-toe in Band-Aids.

A new low, you say? Need I remind you that I am the same person who pays my child to wear her clothes?