Bootsie's Initiation

Up until now, it doesn't seem like Baby Bootsie, who is closing in on ten months, has had her fair share of the blogspace heretofore monopolized by Sooby and Pooh.  Although at times I have experienced the nagging fear of shortchanging her,  I have to be truthful and say there just hadn't been much inspiration.  She sat, she grinned, she slept, she ate, she went through diapers--that was about it.

The transition over the past month began subtly: she ate a Cheerio, she laid her head on my shoulder when I told her to, she patted a baby doll, she began to roll and pull herself around on the floor.  Then, suddenly, she was crawling up steps.  She was eating catfood.  Her social interaction quadrupled.  Bootsie was coming into her own. Hallelujah!  It was only a matter of time before she, too, would generate "story material."

I will call this Bootsie's "initiation" story--her first distinguishing act with blog potential.  It is a doozy.  She did something her brother and sister had never done, at least to anyone's knowledge.  I am so proud of her.  She has crossed that elusive line into true blogworthiness.

I will warn you that the story has a rather ominous beginning.  Several days ago, to her mother's alarm, Bootsie appeared to be choking on something--not the blue-faced, stopped-breathing kind of choking, I hasten to add.   Nevertheless, she had clearly put something in her mouth that didn't belong there and was experiencing some major discomfort as it lodged at the back of her throat.  She was unable to get the object out through the normal channels of coughing and hacking, and she wasn't very cooperative as her mom (my daughter Cookie) and dad, understandably concerned, tried to open her mouth to assess the situation.

In first telling this story to me, I believe Cookie used the phrase "freaking out" to describe the parental behavior at hand.  Finally, Cookie was able to run a forefinger across the back of Bootsie's throat and extract what looked like a twig or large piece of brown grass.  Upon said extraction, situation normal resumed in the household, accompanied, as always, by those silent vows we have all made after such perceived "close calls" to watch more vigilantly, examine the environment more thoroughly, and so forth.

As the evening wore on, the event took a backseat to those more immediate concerns of the family routine: eating dinner, cleaning the kitchen, bathing, getting ready for bed.  Bootsie was apparently suffering no ill after-effects of the earlier scare, and life had returned to the sane, mundane comfort zone of familiarity and the sense of complacency that ensues when nothing much is going on.

Indeed, it was a typical night in Bootsie's household.  Nothing new.  Same-old same-old.  That is, until, in the process of closing the house down for the night,  Cookie made a telling discovery:  a five-legged grasshopper.

Way to go, Bootsie.  You have earned your place in the annals of family lore.  Your story ranks right up there with the time Sooby put a bead in her ear and the time, much longer ago, that Cookie herself stuck a piece of cooked macaroni up her nose as I innocently mixed together a pot of goulash.

Lest I leave any loose ends here, let me just say that the doctor was able to retrieve the bead with a pair of tiny tweezers, and Cookie conveniently sneezed as I was on the phone seeking medical advice from her own doctor.

But, even as we speak, somewhere in Kansas, a confused and undoubtedly troubled grasshopper must be dizzy from hopping around in circles.