Carried away in the throws of our mission and bouncing away in the Bjorn on my chest, by all accounts mine could be called a happy baby. But as soon as his little knees hit grass, there were big, wet tears.
Why hasn’t anyone ever written a chapter on weaning baby from clean interior floor to alien, mucky scrub?
If I’d known, I would have ventured forth into such territory sooner, ripping up the miles of yoga mat off our floors at home - these lay scattered below every hazardous table edge, in a bid to prevent severe head injury on the marble underfoot - cultivating fresh play pens filled with grass and bits of dead leaf instead. Condo living definitely has its downside and although there are wonderful, little lush spots of grass here and there, they are all exposed to an obscene amount of fertilizer and pesticide, giving it a wonderful rich tone of green and promptly killing any unsuspecting insect that might find it homely. So I suppose we remain confined to admiring the ground's greenery from afar, rather than sweeping a barefoot, or little knee for that matter, through it. Upon cheerfully asking the building manager for the lowdown and ready to laugh the danger factor off, the big jolly Indian fellow wiped the smile from his face, stepped in exceptionally close and told me,
Never to be taking the baby on the grass, No.
So now the sun is shining, baby's belly is full, two hours until nap time and tears well forth as soon as we settle ourselves into the great outdoors. It seems these little knees have been hidden away inside an overall for too long and I may have my work cut out for me..