On The Move

Margaret can not crawl in an upright, not dragging her belly on the floor, straight-armed fashion.*

This has occurred not a moment too soon, because in nine days, she and I and her father** are going to be boarding a plane to take her to Washington, and if she was unable to crawl properly, and was also trying her hardest to walk*** her maternal grandfather would have kittens.

And then, because more kittens is the last thing they need, her maternal grandmother would quite possibly be carried off by an apoplexy.  So we want to avoid that if at all possible. 

Margaret, as she is an obliging infant, has gotten her crawl to acceptable standards.  At the end, she drops back down into her commando crawl, but that was just because she was approaching the exciting trove of glasses and phones, and wanted to make sure that she crept up undetected.  She’s quite good at tactics.  Not so much for strategy, but good at tactics.

 

*This doesn’t mean that she does all the time, mind you, but she can, and that’s the important thing.

**And her Uncle Ron, for that matter, but he is, understandably, less important to this narrative than I am, because I’m writing it.

***Which she most certainly is.