The working parent's fears realized: I missed his first steps.

On Wednesday, I dropped in the daycare to pick up Johnny, and as I chatted with the teachers, I flippantly said something about “Yeah, well, if he would ever walk it would be a lot easier…” and she looked at me and said “Oh, he walks.” And she put him down on the ground, and he walked across the room to me.

Just like that.

And then I fell down on the ground and died.

One might think I was dying because I had apparently missed my baby’s first steps, and yes, that might have added a little extra force to my pulmonary embolism, but no, what really pushed my ticker over the edge was the fact that after the shocking walking episode, I said to her, “How’s he eating?”

This was a mistake.

At home, Johnny will not eat. I come near him with a cheesy noodle and he screams as if I have removed his liver via his belly button sans anesthesia. Same for peanut butter crackers, all meats except chicken and only if it’s in chicken and noodles, cheese, spaghetti, and everything else you can think of and then a few more things. Except cereal bars. He loves cereal bars.

So you can imagine my desire to disembowel myself when the teacher informs me in one breath that he can walk (of course, he will do nothing of the sort at home) and in the next that he eats, like, everything. She laughed. She seriously laughed. “Yeah, he eats,” (hee heh heh ha ha) “he eats his food AND everyone else’s.”

Commence embolism. I’m throwing a clot here.

The good news: he is not malnutritioned and he is perfectly normal in his gross motor skills.

The bad news: he hates us.

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