His Own Two Feet

For the twelfth time in just under an hour, I have just returned from my journey down the hall to rescue Eli. Eli has a problem. You see, like many babies his age, he is becoming quite good at pulling up and standing tall in his crib. He grabs onto the bars and pulls and tugs and works his way up, hand-over-hand, till he is standing erect, peeking over the side Kilroy-style. This is all very cute and dandy, but the poor boy is completely inept when it comes to getting down. It's the same every time. When Eli is put down for a nap, he lays quietly until I leave the room. Soon thereafter the silence turns to little grunts as he works hard to reach the top. The grunts then become happy giggles of accomplishment. Soon its the sounds of nervous laughter which quickly evolve into panicked squeals that in no time whatsoever morph into full-force wailing. Every time, the same. The only real difference is the ending pose. Once I found him standing with his legs spread as far apart as his footed pajamas would allow, his feet still begging to slide. Another time, his attempt to land himself resulted in his arm sliding out the rail and turning akwardly away from his body. Yesterday, he had slid down until his legs popped out, one on either side of a side bar, leaving him in a sort of suspended stand, half in and half out, his feet hovering above the floor. Most of the time, however, its the same. Eli is standing there, wailing, coughing, crying, shaking, but still standing. I bend him at the knees, push his bottom down to the mattress, lay him back, and gently calm him before leaving the room. Then its time to catch a breather, take a restroom break, grab a sip of Diet Dew, kiss Chloe on the head, and get ready for Round 13. Eventually exhaustion has to win.