My son is on a roll

There are days when plans go out the window. Take tonight, for instance. I had planned to write a breathtakingly awe-inspiring post that would thrill and amaze you. Instead, my focus is on Mr6 and the fact that he rolls like a tumbleweed through my house, day and night.

He’s not a big kid. Average. Brown hair. Big hazel eyes. Giraffe eyelashes. Not an ounce of body fat. No bottom to speak of. But he is constantly in motion. And his motion is horizontal.

Every time I turn around, he’s doing forward rolls across the floor. The sofa. The bed. The table. The child is possessed. Getting him into his school uniform in the mornings is an exercise in repetition.

“Get dressed.”

Roll.

“Get dressed.”

Flip, flip, roll.

“Get dressed.”

Wobble, wobble, roll.

Ad nauseum. (Over and over, even.)

I cannot begin to explain how disconcerting all this rolling is. How intrinsically irritating. It is hard to put into words how the constant motion throws off one’s equilibrium.

In short, it’s driving me crazy.

My parents have taken to calling him Sir RollaLot. Yes, even when he visits others, he’s likely to roll through the door.

I know it will pass. The Yellow Wiggle phase passed. The Luke Skywalker light-sabre practice, complete with annoying buzzing sound, passed. The rolling will one day roll on, to be replaced by something equally inventive.

I suppose I should be excited. Constant practice has made him pretty good at forward rolls. World class, in fact. I can’t quite bring to mind a moment when this will come in handy, but one never knows.

I should probably just relax and enjoy the show. After all, they say that everybody’s good at one thing. This could be it.

{image: Oliver Hartung/seconds.}