Memorial Day

Confessions of a Mobile Infant

Memorial Day Edition

            When the clueless male presented himself this morning with a new, flag bedecked shirt (I suspect Carters. They tend to favor the asymmetrical neck snaps), I had no reason to suspect the day held anything more than a visit from the wrinkled ones and perhaps a nibble of some sugary delight, slipped surreptitiously into my face by one of the many visitors who long for my acceptance (I make a point of accepting the offerings with quiet contentment but later crying if aforementioned visitor comes to collect me, albeit not as loudly as I would have originally. I have a higher price than two pinches of snicker doodle, thank you very much.) It was, therefore, to my great surprise when I attended what has become the greatest spectacle I have yet observed in my meager seven months since I first experienced life beyond the dark, pink, lukewarm pool.
            I had the great pleasure of observing what I can only assume to be my nearest of kin (there was an unusual preponderance of blue eyes and freckles) as they navigated an obstacle course of wood and plastic lawn furniture in meager attempts to collect food from a smattering of small tables. It is obvious that the soft one finds these to be tastefully decorated, though I find crepe paper to be rather gauche. (Her time would, no doubt, be better spent in giving me the liquid ambrosia, with which she has become rather stingy.) I watched them comfortably from the Pack-and-Play as they jostled and scooted their large, uncoordinated bodies through small spaces and past dangerous stray acorns on the wooden entertainment platform, giggling to myself. Surely, they realize that such a conglomeration of populous and ill-coordinated people among so many unwieldy patio chairs is ambitious, at best, but alas: not a single one forsook their mission to acquire the yellow coagulated goop and the small white triangles they besmirched with it. No doubt it is similar to the liquid ambrosia in flavor and degree of deliciousness, as they strove so hard to retrieve it time and again onto their red, white and blue food collection surfaces. I heard many an utterance of "Velvetta" and "Rotel" but I can only assume these are foreign words or women previously married to my awkward Uncle Phillip. On several occasions, one of the red conical beverage holders would be knocked asunder by a passing derriere and I had to pretend to be deeply entertained by my Baby Einstein Animals of the World literature.
              I have a very minimal grasp of heredity and epigenetic function, but I do know that one day, it is very possible that I could become one of these ridiculous beings. When the time comes for my own large motor bipedal adventures, I must endeavor to master a stable and affective walk that perpetuates the dignity and ambivalence I so obviously exude. Until such a time, and I am in no hurry, I shall be content to sit in my Chlorine-free Whole Foods waste retention pants and observe the folly that these people seem to confuse with large motor development. Such larks!