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So, as things are wont to unfold in this life of mine, I returned home from California last week to a walking child. Marlo had been walking on and off in the days leading up to my vacation, but she would usually take a few steps and be all, SCREW THIS. And then she’d drop to the floor and crawl to her destination three times as fast. That’s math, y’all. Or is that laziness? Hmm. Don’t answer that.

And then the Saturday that I was away she suddenly decided to cross off that milestone in her life, and now it’s all walking all the time. And I wasn’t there. This is where the haters are all serves you right for taking a vacation, you self-entitled ho-bag. And this is where I’m all you mean WELL RESTED self-entitled ho-bag.

For those of you who weren’t reading a few years ago, Leta didn’t walk until she was almost two years old. And by then she was so interested in books that she never used her walking to engage in something dangerous. You guys, I can’t overstate the convenience of giving birth to a nerd. The danger only comes into play years later when they’re experimenting with potassium chlorate.

Marlo seeks out danger. Where is something she can climb on top of and then swan dive onto the floor? Is that a set of stairs over there? Because she’s thinking she could jump and clear at least six of them. And stop grabbing her arm to try and pull her away! Because watch! This shit is gonna be straight up insane!

I’ve had experience with these kinds of kids, but then I got in my car and I drove away.

Now I’m tasked with figuring out how the hell to deal with this, and the solution is pretty much this: don’t ever blink. Because in that second she’ll be on some ledge four feet in the air, the end of a power cord in her mouth and a smirk all over her face that says I can’t believe I have to deal with these amateurs.