Abe is moving on two feet and more dangerous than ever. He yanks himself up on this little cart and scoots across the kitchen. But he can’t turn, so he crashes hard into the dishwasher or table, then yells until we turn him.
Occasionally he gets really lucky and runs over Max, at which point he can let go of the cart and drool on Max. Walking is Abe’s white whale, and we believe that he is trying to fuse himself to his brother so he can get going, cartless.
Max is less than enthused. Perhaps this is why he awoke last night at 3 am, claiming, in that delightfully irrational 4-year old way, that it was day time. He demanded breakfast and, incongruously for daytime, stories. We obliged, and before I hear any, “Boy, if I had done that to your parents, my dad would have told me to…,” remember that you can go jump in a lake. We negotiate with terrorists if it might mean going back to bed quickly.
Like all such gunboat diplomacy, this approach carries with it the risk of exquisite failure, and that’s what we had last night. I pity his teachers when he realizes he is short about 3 hours of sleep. At least Abe got enough sleep to put him in a good mood.