The Experts™ at BabyCenter occasionally hit me right in the funny. Today, they were telling me about my 23-Month-Old, First week, and his/her abilities with throwing a ball. And I just about dissolved into laughter as I read the following:
“Your toddler may now be able to throw a ball overhand with ease, although she'll probably miss her target most of the time. The whole-arm coordination that allows her to roll or throw a ball at something (or someone) usually comes somewhere between 18 months and 3 years.”
Granted, my laughter may have been tinged with hysteria. See, Captain Adventure may still be lagging the pack when it comes to talking, but when it comes to his ability to throw things? Way ahead of the herd. Captain Adventure has excellent aim…when it comes to bouncing things off my head.
Want more juice? Don’t say ‘more juice’! Just bean Mommy on the head with the empty sippy cup! That’s the way to subtly get the message across that hey – this thing is empty!!
It is truly amazing just how hard a little, bitty 23-Month Old, First week, can manage to sling an empty juice cup. From clear across the room, no less.
In all fairness, though, I have to state: I was born to be the mother of a little boy. I have rather good reflexes. I am athletic by nature. I used to play tennis, basketball, run track, beat the crap out of people do kempo. My husband, himself no slouch in the martial arts department, has expressed admiration at both my reflexes and my vicious, no-holds-barred fighting style ability to hold my own in a bar brawl.
Nine times out of ten, I will snatch that cup out of the air long before it actually cracks my cranium. Sometimes without ever even looking at it directly (which is also a cool trick to pull during a bar brawl, by the way – it’s called ‘good use of peripheral vision and intuition’. Amaze your friends! Impress the bikers! Earn the title of Bad Momma – with serious bonus points if you then coolly and without a break in the conversation you’re having about the relative merits of Dante v. Descartes take a long swig from the beer bottle you just intercepted mid-flight. But I digress…).
That tenth time, however…OUCH!
I have told myself, as I dig through the drawer looking for a towel suitable to hold the ice I’m about to apply to my new black eye, that I should take great comfort in the fact that at least one of my children appears to have inherited my athleticism. That at least one of my kids is going to play football, or soccer, or basketball with me. Go on rollercoasters with me. Put up with me tagging along to karate. As I dig into the bottle of Motrin, I comfort myself with visions of Him and Me, backpacking through the Andes together. Maybe riding horses across the wild plains of Indiana. Taking Six Flags by storm, while the girly-girl sisters and their ‘what are you, MENTAL?!’ father watch enviously from the safety of the ground.
This is, of course, merely another example of my desperate Pollyannaism at work.
My son is a bruiser. Adorable, but vicious. With a gentle smile, he goes right for the jugular.
Yup. Definitely my child.
…I wonder if he’ll like kempo…
……and if he’ll be utterly mortified if I’m studying at the same dojo……
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