These booties are made for walking

Well, well, well. Talk about tortoise and the hare... On the cusp of LGO's birthday (13 months tomorrow), he up and takes five steps solo with no prior warning at all. This from the guy who only started crawling less than a month ago, and prior to that was the baby equivalent of a couch potato. I'll be darned. So he's a late crawler and early-ish walker. Serves me right for being concerned all those weeks when he sat there, like a little turnip, on his mat. I should have known that he was plotting and waiting for just the right moment to dazzle mommy senseless.

No camera to hand to record the big event since we were at Gymboree at the time, and I kid you not, the contempt of the other moms sitting in the circle with their own little turnips was palpable. I wasn't smug; at least I don't think I came off that way. How could I be? I reminded one mom that there was a world of difference between a 9- and 13-month old and I should know. Not sure if she believed me (a few short months ago I wouldn't have believed me) or felt any less contemptuous. But at least I tried. And let's just say -- since I can afford to be a little smug here, in the safe confines of my own blog -- that it felt damn good to wear the other penny loafer for once. To be the mom of that incredibly busy babe, even if the others were weeks if not months his junior.

We pretend all this stuff doesn't matter, of course, we pretend that there is no competitive edge at sing-alongs, that we're all just proud as peas no matter what our Jimmy and Janey do or don't do by a certain age. But oh, let me burst that precious bubble right now. The edge is there alright. Just look at how some of these babies are dressed. I have never in my life worn such coordinated and fetching ensembles (I couldn't even afford the labels). This is a serious game, especially these days where it's career mom vs career mom. They're a fierce bunch, fresh from the boardroom to the playground and bloodthirsty beneath the Stepford veneer. I'm praying Little Green One grows up as klutzy as his madre, and plain sucks at hockey -- not to mention soccer, baseball, basketball, and... Otherwise I'm in for it. I'd be run down by a Land Rover long before the Zamboni came out in between periods. Here's hoping Little Green stays oxen-big and clinging to that 90th percentile throughout puberty so he can protect his little mother when the going gets ugly. He may not have to worry about bullies, but I will.

Not much else to report. We move house for the third time in under a year and as I stuff boxes, I'm worrying (me, worry?!) about how our lad will adapt to the new place. Previously he was so young that I knew, even though it was strange to consider, that he would have zilch recollection of his life in England. And that the transatlantic move and all the ensuing craziness would be all but obliterated from his long-term memory. I truly wish it was for me. But this time around he's showing signs of the dreaded separation anxiety and I wonder whether another uprooting will be more noticeable for him this time around. Obviously he will be surrounded by familiar 'things', albeit he still hasn't taken to a certain toy for comfort. And mommy and daddy will be on hand, as will nanny and grampy, to make the transition as smooth as possible. But I'm sure my own stress will leave a stench like that Coty perfume I bathed in when I was twelve.

At least Mr Green and I are determined -- I mean, the mortgage lenders are determined --that this will be the last stop for quite a while. If I have my way, at least until LGO finishes elementary school. Maybe even high school, whereupon we can kick him out and nab a fancy condo (just kidding, errr....). In the meantime, happy days, right? In the meantime, looks like I have yet more adapting to do. This time as a poor housewife in a rich(er) neighbourhood. Does that mean I can't shop at Walmart and Value Village anymore? Maybe it is a good time to practice looking smug after all, especially when I am the only one who knows how much I didn't pay for that 'new' sweater.