I'm fine; I have a giraffe

It's hard to blog when you have a family. At the moment I'm trying to compose a story in my head before putting it down on paper and Noah is shrieking just to hear his little lungs work, the husband is rattling off big words from his nursing homework, and Dumpster is trying to steal a monkey rattle from Noah without anyone noticing. It is like a really bad orchestra primarily composed of out of tune bagpipes in here. . . And I just heard a sound that suggests it will not smell so lovely in this room in a few seconds. I'll be right back...

I suppose it would be hard to blog without a family too. No fodder for the story beasts.

For Christmas we gave Noah a walker, and it is his primary joy in life after milk. Or to put it more correctly, running over Dumpy and mercilessly chasing him down is a primary life joy. (Don't feel too sorry for the great Bully. All he has to do to escape Noah is step onto the carpet. As he isn't clever enough to figure this out, I declare him too stupid to defend. He deserves a good chasin'. More on my beloved Bully's stupidity later.)

Mounted on either side of the walker are two plastic giraffes standing like great stone Argonath guarding the river of cereal flowing beneath them. At first these two giraffes were a cause of great concern to my little one. He swiveled his wrecking ball noggin from one to the other, unable to keep a wary eye on both. They encircled him like terrible velociraptors (see below), with those big, uncanny smiles painted on unfeeling, yellow faces.

Now that he has grown accustomed to the arrangement of his favorite gadget and realized that giraffes will not strike without extreme provocation, Baby Noah has put these creatures to use. He grabs them both like gear shifts pulling and pushing first this one then that. He drives his walker like a bulldozer, and I see a bright future in construction or gold digging on a Discovery Channel show ahead for him. And if, heavens forbid, he gets stuck on the carpet and his giraffe controls are unable to propel him anywhere, he greedily stuffs one into his mouth, gnawing on his horn, throwing a wicked look at the other as if to say, "Shape up, or you're next." Prey becomes predator in the wild kitchen jungle.

My son's life seems inextricably linked to these tall, spotted, Savannah creatures. At our baby shower he received a book about a dancing giraffe, and it remains one of his favorite. When given a Little People Noah's Ark, he immediately snagged the giraffes, two by two, and started teething on their heads. His great uncle Bob gave him a stuffed giraffe for Christmas and he was inseparable from it all day. So I imagine one day, my sweet Noah will be in an open jeep, cruising the plains of Africa, a sketch book in one hand and a tempting green shoot in the other.

But right now he's actually crying, not just screaming. The giraffes will have to wait until their destiny has his bath.