That’s what I’m going to call my little darling the next time we’re reenacting Oregon Trail. Believe me, dysentery is more of a problem than you’d imagine.
RR is seven months old. If you could measure sitting skills among her daycare peers, she would be in the 99th percentile. She sits so well, chair-makers line up outside our house for autographs. Okay, not all chair-makers. You could fling her like a boomerang and she’d zip out to the atmosphere and then come back and fall perfectly into a sitting position. Weebles have a statue of her in their playhouse.
I tell you that so I can tell you this. RR does not roll over. I suspect she can, but I am certain that she doesn’t. Isn’t, won’t. She can arch herself into a perfect backbend, the envy of yoga enthusiasts the world over. In fact, today she arched herself so throughly that she nearly flipped over the other way. Off the changing table. And into the laundry hamper. If not for my lightning fast changing table ninja skills, I’d have had a very surprised baby. She can do all that, but she Just Doesn’t Roll Over. I’m afraid I’m becoming something of a haridan about it. I tut tut and scold softly (to myself) and still no rolling is forthcoming. I don’t want to worry that there’s a problem but seven months! Roll, right?
Rolling aside, RR also sports a sheen of hair so fine as to be unnoticeable to the common passerby. In fact, it might be unnoticeable to anyone without the Hubble Telescope.
But this is important, because her doctor says that teeth and hair tend to grow harmoniously hand in hand. She grows no hair ergo, she grows no teeth. Poppycock, right? Your babies all had awesome heads of hair and no teeth or, conversely no hair at all and a mouthful of chompers. All THIS is important because I feel as though I can’t properly blame her current bad attitude on teething since I’ve been hoodwinked by this teeth and hair myth. She is, as her daycare provider would say, a shambles. Please, I need teething to soothe my soul. If she isn’t teething (AT SEVEN MONTHS) she’s actually turning into a tasmanian devil. One that doesn’t, of course, roll.