Playful, elegant, and not above the judicious use of the word “shit."

Baby Einstein

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend whose little girl is one day older than Leta. We took Chuck to her house so that he could play with their walloping weimaraner, Jones, and so that Leta could see what someone her age was capable of doing with her legs: moving.

Leta sat in the middle of the floor watching in HORROR as Izzie, my friend’s child, scattered about the room demolishing everything in sight. Izzie approached Leta several times and smacked her face in a loving, aww, look-at-that-baby-who-can’t-move kind of way. And Leta just sat there with this look on her face, stunned, wondering why the hell such a creature would waste all that energy on moving around when it could be used for much more productive things like SCREAMING.

Surprisingly, we were able to finish our lunch before disaster struck, before Izzie noticed that I had handed Leta one of her toys, before Izzie could DASH across the room with the speed of a cheetah and yank the toy from Leta’s unsuspecting grip. Thus commenced the Silent Scream of Death, the scream so high and silent in pitch that only souls in Hell can hear its demon din, the scream that sucks all the air out of the room and sets the world into slow motion.

She may not be able to crawl, no, but people, that kid can alter the space-time continuum WITH HER MOUTH.

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