We have reached an interesting phase in our house. Little Z has decided he fancies himself a bit of a Patrick Swayze in the last scene of Dirty Dancing; the bit where he slides across the floor on his knees. Except that he does it constantly. About 4 times an hour.
Whether it’s leaping off his latest thrill seeking height, running about at speed or simply showing off his new found footy skills, everything lands with sliding across the floor and more often than not, his artistic moves are finished by just lying there, for a bit of a rest, and occasionally with his ear to the ground. Literally.
And instead of just getting up, a new found perspective has been experienced. That of walking around on all fours. Like “a cat”. This particular cat can move at pretty high speed, testing the mettle of his jeans, scuffing as they go, wearing thin way before their time.
It doesn’t matter where we are and outdoors in public places is just as effective a place to practice as in the comfort of his own home.
As I find myself immersed in a daily loop of scraping dried mud off both his trainers and his jeans, I’ve come to definite conclusion that jeans are not going to live their intended lifespan in our house for the next decade, at least. Unless, of course, I invest in some heavy duty shin pads or start sewing the equivalent of elbow patches onto his knees. Whilst they would be questionably uncool they may have a huge market out there. Imagine the demand. I could be rich.
To his delight, he discovered he could admire himself gliding around on his knees in a recent visit to a shoe shop. With the majority of mirrors placed at feet height he gazed at his reflection whilst skidding speedily about on his knees around not one, but 4 shops whilst the Other Half wanted to visit “just one more shop” to find the perfect pair of trainers and as my head was slowly about to blow clean off my shoulders from trying to keep Little Z in one place. Any attempt to do so simply encouraged him to act like a rag doll and flop to the ground, giggle and lie down.
After a game of impromptu game of hide and seek amongst the clothes rails we decided it was time to leave.
Thankfully we made it out with my head just about in tact and vowed never to visit the Trafford centre again on a Saturday with a 3 year old. Unless they start paying me for having squeaky clean floors.