Lucky Number 7

Gross.

Seven years ago today, my mom and dad got married. A fairly inconsequential day in American history, you're thinking. And you'd be right. But I can't ignore the fact that, if that day never happened, I wouldn't be here today. (Well, I still could be. But not without all four of my grandparents being more than a bit upset with my parents.)

So happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. And don't worry – I hear that whole "Seven-Year Itch" thing is just an urban legend.

Geez, again? Get a room!

On the move

Well, it appears that all my training for the Olympics has paid off. I'm now officially a crawler.

Over the last month or so, I’ve been working my butt off, trying to master the art of crawling, and I’m now proud to say that I’ve done it. Need proof?



Check out the speed! The power! The agility! The pajamas that Dad left me in all day!

Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that developments like this one often result in a mixed bag of consequences. As such, there are a few pros and cons related to my newfound mobility. Here's a quick rundown:

Pro: Because crawling takes so much effort, I tire myself out more easily, which means I'm sleeping better at night. [Editor's note: This is a HUGE pro.]

Con: Every electrical outlet and cord in the house is now within reach, so Mom and Dad can't put off baby-proofing anymore.

Pro: Freedom! Never again will I be limited to playing with whichever toy just happens to be placed directly in front of me. If I don't like what I have, I can hit the open road and find another toy to play with.

Con: Mom and Dad can no longer sit me on the bed when they're getting ready in the morning, since I'd just crawl right off the edge. (In related news, babies are awful at understanding their surroundings.) So I'm stuck sitting in the pack-and-play with just a couple of toys to keep me sane. I'm like Steve McQueen in "The Great Escape."

Con: If it's a stray crumb, scrap of paper, piece of dirt, or any other item on the floor and within eyesight, I'm tracking it down and it's going in my mouth.

Pro: We don't have any stairs, so there's no need for one of those baby gates that Dad would inevitably fall over.

Con: I'm getting cuts, floor burns and rug burns all over my hands, knees and feet.

Pro: This toughens me up. Or so Dad says.

Pro/Con: I've found that, the less I'm wearing, the easier it is to crawl. But that means less protection for my hands, knees and feet (see above con). So Mom and Dad's go-to outfit for when I'm at home is just a onesie and leggings. I have this listed as both a pro and a con because, although the extra protection helps, the outfit as a whole makes me look ridiculous (admittedly, the sunglasses don't help).

Citius, Altius, Fortius, Poopius

I’ve made it through week one of my first Olympic Games viewing experience, and I must say, it's pretty compelling. The pageantry, the drama, the raw physical ability – it’s like watching “Toddlers & Tiaras,” only with more crying.

And with all the praise and adulation that these athletes get heaped upon them, it’s hard not to want to be in their shoes. But I realized that if I want to be up on that medal podium some day, I’d better get to work. I’ve seen enough of those gushy human-interest pieces on NBC to know that the key to Olympic glory is starting your training at a young age (I hear those Chinese gymnasts are given stretching exercises in the womb).

Imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered that, unbeknownst to me, I’ve already begun my training regimen. If the following photos are any indication, I’m well on my way to stardom in any number of Olympic events. In fact, it seems like the hardest task will be narrowing my considerable skills down to just one sport.

100m Dash

Basketball

Beach Volleyball

Equestrian

Fencing

Rhythmic Gymnastics

Swimming (the backstroke is my specialty)

Water Polo

Wrestling

I’m even well-prepared for the Opening Ceremonies and the medal ceremonies:

I’ll see you on the podium at the 2032 Games.

C'mon, Mom...

Remember all those wonderful things I’ve written about my mom over the past nine months? There’s this gem. And this one. And don’t forget this one. Well, I take them all back.

OK, not really, but she’s starting to test my patience. Last October, on my first Halloween, she dressed me up in a ridiculous peapod outfit when I was just nine days old. I wasn’t happy about it, but I forgave her pretty quickly because I was barely a week old and didn’t know any better. Besides, it was Halloween, and if you can’t dress up like an idiot on Halloween, when can you dress up like an idiot?

But this is going too far: Last week, Mom got a little nutty and decided to put me back into that outfit, because apparently she’s insane.

A wise man once said, “Fool me once, shame on… shame on you. Fool me – you can’t get fooled again.” Strong words. Strong, bewildering words. But there’s a grain of truth in there somewhere. I can’t let this happen again.

If I’m going to break this vicious cycle of veggie-themed-outfit abuse, I’ve got to put my foot down. I wish there was some way to tell Mom that if she tries to dress me like a tomato for Halloween this year, I’ll get a tattoo of Richard Nixon on my forehead the day I turn 16. Oh, wait. I guess I just did tell her. For the sake of both of us, I hope she heeds my warning.

By the way, I’m a very good eater for the most part. I drink my bottles of formula quickly, without any unnecessary dawdling or shenanigans. I eat a wide variety of baby food without complaint, from squash and carrots to peaches and apples. My ability to pick up one Cheerio at a time and (eventually) get it in my mouth is unmatched.

Yes, I'm wearing a "My First X-mas" bib in July.

But to this day, there’s one food that I simply refuse to eat. Do you know what it is? You guessed it:

Nice going, Mom.