I cleaned the bathroom the other day just so I could have some alone time.
An hour and a half later, AN HOUR AND A HALF later, I finally came out. That bathroom was so clean I could hear it ‘ting’. I washed the walls and baseboards. I cleaned the closet. I swept AND mopped the floor. All this went on while The Beast clung to the bars of the baby gate at the bottom of the stairs moaning like he was in his own baby-jail-hell. After all, it was an hour and a half of his life where he didn’t get to adhere his tiny body onto me like a hungry sea lamprey.
And he is that sticky.
He’s like a suction cup. And not the crappy kind you have to lick just to get it to stick. No, he’s like the kind that makes that huge popping sound when you pull it off. He’s like top-of-the-line cling wrap. Not the stupid generic stuff that won’t even stick to itself. No. He’s like name brand cling wrap. Or like Velcro…he’s like Velcro. I can almost hear that terrible ripping sound the two Velcro sides make when I pry him from my pant leg.
I have to say though I admire my son’s fortitude. It’s a good quality. He’s willing to fight for what he wants and will follow through at all cost.
Rumour has it I was not a Velcro Baby. I was probably too lazy to put in that kind of effort. I imagine my mom thought this was great when she took me to a gathering and could plop me in the middle of the room and go hit the snack table. She probably thought it was not so great when I’d wander off with any old stranger whether they offered me treats or not. Unlike me, The Beast requires an adjustment period when we attend a social event. He seems to forget he has a neck and only moves his eyes back and forth…kind of like Kermit. He has to sit on my knee and evaluate the situation before I can put him down. Once I feel him relax and he starts to move his head again, I know he’s ready to explore. If I try to shake him off too soon, we have to ‘start all over putting blocks on top’.
I used to worry my Velcro Baby would grow up to be some sort of weird mama’s boy or something. I tried to heed all the advice to put him down because holding him too much would make him clingy. Well, he is clingy, and we’re both fine with it. He’s as well-adjusted as a 10 month old can be and goes on little crawling adventures without me all the time. He’ll go to almost anyone unless he finds them suspicious. Plus, let’s face it, when he’s five, he’ll only cling to me when he’s hurt. Then when he’s nine he’ll only cling to me when he’s hurt and no one’s looking. Then when he’s 17, he’ll cling to some duck-lip-selfie-taking teenaged girl in the back of my minivan. He’ll come up with all sort of clever lies about how those marks on his neck aren’t hickeys, he just played his tuba too loud in band and broke some blood vessels…yeah…that’s what happened…
By that time, I’ll have all the alone time a mother could ask for. And I’ll spend every second of it following him around making sure him and that duck-lip-selfie-taking girlfriend of his don’t go making Velcro babies of their own.