I don’t think I became lazy until I was a teenager. My toddler, however, has mastered it at three.
It’s a very selective laziness. He’s off the wall with energy most of the time, i.e., when you’re trying to get through the security line at the airport and he decides he wants to pretend to be The Flash; but when it’s time for him to actually do something? He’s less active than most of the people who work security at the airport.
Of course, if I had someone willing to carry me around everywhere, I’m pretty sure I’d let my legs atrophy until they melted off, so who am I to talk?
Last Christmas I gave you my heart and Detective Munch acquired a tricycle. Not a big wheel (unfortunately) but an actual chrome-and-red tricycle. While a big wheel is preferable and infinitely cooler, tricycles are still fun, and riding one is not difficult. You don’t need training wheels, because the three wheels make it nearly impossible to fall over. You don’t need a helmet, because the thing hugs the ground and when I grew up wearing a helmet meant you were a nerd so sack up.
All you need to do to ride around on your little trike is sit down and simulate walking, only you pound the pedals with your feet instead of the pavement. It’s easy and fun and hopefully incredibly tiring, but the kid refuses to do it.
It’s not because he can’t; it’s because he’s a jellybutt. To be fair, making the motion necessary to pedal a tricycle isn’t the easiest thing in the world when you still haven’t totally conquered the art of walking, but all he needs to do is try a few times and it’ll happen. But once my son encounters even the tiniest smidge of resistance and the tricycle refuses to budge, he either wants Mommy or Daddy to push him, or he Flintstones the thing around. He’s done with it. Which is a great sign for his future, because everyone knows life is easy and most things of value are gained through pure luck.
I don’t think his poor pedal ethic is necessarily a sign that he’ll be living in a cardboard box when he’s twenty-two, but it is frustrating, especially because the laziness he displays when he should be doing something fun is nothing compared to how slothful he is the rest of the time. Like when it’s time to go to school.
Not only does he refuse to get dressed or out his jacket on or brush his teeth – which is probably more about toddler-style “civil disobedience” than laziness – he refuses to go to sleep, which, for a lazy person, is simply INSANE. Even worse, he refuses to walk. He’ll stop in the hallway and yell “pick me!”, which thankfully doesn’t mean he has a wedgie: He needs to be carried. ALL THE TIME. Down the hallway, to the car, in the elevator, from the couch to the toilet.
Apparently, we’re raising Cleopatra. (Until we need to get his sneakers on; then he’s Usain Bolt.)
This is another one of those things that could merely be a result of his age – another so-called “phase” – and not necessarily a harbinger of his lifelong personality, and we have plenty of time to “Great Santini” a poor work ethic out of him, but is this phase over yet? My back is killing me.
At least there’s a silver lining. Thanks to constantly scooping my son up and carrying him around, I basically have a bionic right arm. I dare you to shake my hand.