The weekly walker.

  For months, I've been dreaming about the day that Roman would walk. I've been guarded in my dreaming, though. I know his first steps won't come without struggle and maybe even some heavy equipment. Sometimes I would dream about him walking with little arm crutches, sometimes with a walker and sometimes with no assistance at all. 

  These dreams don't usually make me sad, in fact they are actually quite empowering. However, in my dreams I just see him walking, I never see how I am reacting. So, lately I've been thinking about how I will or should react. 

Should I fall down and be hysterical with joy? Or should I take a more dignified approach and stay standing while turning into a hysterical, useless bowl of raw emotion? I mean, those would definitely be fun and honestly they are very fitting. I've been told that I err on the dramatic side. 

  Today our buddy Roman was suspended from a contraption that is clearly from the future and placed on a treadmill where two physical therapist sat, for 15 minutes solid and "walked" him. 

It felt so good to see him upright and walking, I loved even more seeing that he wasn't letting the ladies do all the work. He got a few good stomps all by himself and even though he was absolutely exhausted he stayed with us. Well, where could he go, I mean really? 

While Roman was snoozing on our two hour ride home I got a chance to reflect on the days events and realized that this gave me a little taste of how I might react when it's time for "the real thing." I didn't fall into a heap of over-dramatic sobs, sniffles and wails of joy. I didn't even cry standing up. In fact my friends you'll be surprised to know that I didn't cry at all. I took the high road and smiled, made jokes, and took a few grainy pictures from my phone.

Speaking of pictures, where are my manners? All of this time I've been yapping on about myself and haven't even mentioned how Roman felt about the whole ordeal. Some people, so rude. 

Exhibit A: The first thing that our eyes are attracted to is the 5 inch stream of drool that is falling onto that public treadmill. Fifteen straight minutes of screaming in protest will do that to a mini Chuck Norris in training.

Exhibit B: This is what pleading from the eyes of a fourteen month old baby looks like. See Also: Desperation, Rage and Pooped.

Exhibit C: These boots were made for walkin' 

I should end this by telling you that this poor kiddo will be going through this torture every week for an unspecified number of months. It is my sincere hope that after a few more "strolls" he'll cozy up to the idea of being harnessed into a tight locking, diaper wedgie inducing suspended in mid-air contraption from the future. 

C'mon, doesn't sound that bad....