Mom, what are you DOING trying to fart on my tummy?

So Little Green celebrates his one-year anniversary in a couple of weeks. Incredible. As for me, this past year has been akin to a dog's; I've aged seven. But sadly, unlike a vintage red, it's done me no favours. Why is it that when men sprout a few greys (and I don't mean from their noses) and get a few lines chiseled around the eyes, they look distinguished -- they look like Daniel Craig, they look like Clive Owen -- while we women just look like the witch in Snow White? As if Mother Nature or the Almighty or Whatever wasn't cruel enough by making us carry and bear children -- at least most of us stop in single figures these days. Small mercies.

As for Little Green, well, it's baby steps and not even. I'd been consoling myself to some extent in thinking that at least if his physical prowess lagged behind (how many almost toddlers do you know who still aren't crawling, aren't even really attempting by their first birthday?), his mental agility must be Samurai sharp by now from all the books. As a little experiment to self this morning, I tested this theory by holding up two balls from one of his toys. One red, one yellow. 'Where is the red ball?' I asked. Would you believe my little boy astutely, and without a moment's hesitation, chose the red. Oh, the pride! Oh, the glorious, glorious pride! I repeated the exercise a moment later, just to be sure. Not only did he seem indifferent this time around, you got it: he chose red again... when I asked for yellow. So long ink blots and scholarships! Hello, would you like fries with that?

Isn't it ridiculous that I get so hung up on his development (or lack thereof) at his tender, overly ripe age? I know it is, but I can't help myself. The whole blowing raspberries thing is his dad's domain, and I always feel embarrassed trying to pull it off. Even Little Green looks embarrassed. Like, 'Mom, what are you doing trying to fart on my tummy?' So it's up to me to be the worrier, the organizer, the educator, and later, the tyrant. Of course, I would much rather be the funny, F-U-N parent but I already know how this will play out -- pardon the pun -- down the line. When I am destined to become Nazi Mom. It's not a pretty picture, but there are already days when I struggle just to keep it together.

I mean, how do you entertain an almost toddler with an attention span even shorter than your own? Sure we have the odd scheduled activity (if I hear The Itsty Bitsy Spider one more time, I swear there will be blood...) but my son isn't a cuddler, much to my dismay. (Hell, his 'attachment' toy these days is none other than a plastic palm tree. I know. I keep thinking back to that damn Rhesus monkey from first year Psych. My child would rather cuddle up to a plastic tree/wire monkey than me, yowsa.) And weighing in at 28lbs in the left corner of the crib... he is too much 'baby' for me to rough and tumble even if this did come naturally to me. Deep breaths. Stop caring quite so much. Little Green won't turn out to be Hannibal Lecter OR Doogie Howser, MD. He'll simply grow up to be himself, a perfectly average man. No wonder I'm worried.