Well, another day another . . . day, I guess. I’m so sluggish today that I can barely concentrate on blinking. I’ll try. Damn, the eyes went out of sequence. Oh well, I can always try again tomorrow.

I spent an inordinate amount of time yesterday just writing. A story. Actual fiction. I’m almost as shocked as you are. That’s twice this year that I’ve delved back into the realm of fiction. Twice! Prior to that I had maybe written one short story since college. The juices just weren’t flowing.

Here’s a basic idea. Imagine you were sitting in a coffee shop and on the table next to you there is a bound journal just sitting there. No one was at the table when you arrived. You wait and wait, but no one shows up. So, out of morbid curiosity, you pick up the journal and start reading it. Inside you find a jumbled mess of random thoughts, stories and conversations all involving the writer, who appears to be slightly unbalanced. A story forms around these little segments and you can’t help but read further. Even though you know you shouldn’t. Are you watching the unraveling of a sane mind? Or are you witnessing the coming of clarity from insanity. It’s hard to tell.

I suppose this little “freelancing” thing that I’m doing is working out for me. Granted, a good amount of my day is spent working on things that actually carry a monetary value. However, throughout the day I get to exercise my creative side, as I’m doing now. If you call describing a peculiar eye-twitch creative. It probably isn’t, but for a guy who spends most of his time considering the healthiness of the baby’s poop, I suppose that I’ll take what I can get.

Speaking of the baby . . . she’s still damn cute. She now has three and ½ teeth. Two on the bottom and one on the top. The fourth is trying very hard to break through the gums and pissing little Gertrude off. Yesterday I found her chewing on the couch looking for relief. I told her they would come soon enough and that the irony was that they would just fall out in five years. She punched me.

Today is her nine-month birthday. Nine months ago, her sleep-deprived parents welcomed her into this world with open arms. We had no idea when she was born that she’d turn into an evil genius. But that’s okay, we love her anyway.

How is she evil? Well, if she notices that one of us is walking through the gate that separates her from all the danger in the house, she’ll start crawling like a mad woman--tearing through the room at break-neck speeds. Periodically she makes it through. Cackling wildly she aims for the stairs and starts climbing, with a rabid grin on her face.

This kid loves danger. Some monrings, after mom has fed her, she’ll crawl over to me in the bed and start slapping my arms and yelling “Ba ba dididididid phhhhhbbbbbbt” with such glee that I imagine her as the villain from a Japanese monster movie, “Oh yes father. Right now you may have power over me. But soon. Yes soon. You will find out the destructive power that is this baby. That is to say, you will know that I am a force to be reckoned with. You will know what it feels like to be turned upside down and have your tummy zerberted. Oh yes. You will. And you will cry. Big tears that fall down you face like the autumn is the fall of the year. HAHAHAHAHA.”

Of course this morning, she cuddled up to me and put her hand gently on my cheek. Later, she was petting my hair. I promptly signed over every possession I own to her and started a trust fund. At the tender age of nine-months she already has my ticket. Of course, at the tender age of .01111 seconds, she had my ticket. Once I saw that little, hyper-pink, wrinkled face, I knew I was done for. No matter what I did, it would be for her. And no matter what I thought, she was in control.

The best part of this age is that she’s very nearly walking. Every day she gets bolder and bolder. At one time she would only walk if I were holding her hands. Now she’s down to one hand. She stands on her own and gets ready to take a step. Many times she has tried to take a step, only to fall on her gently padded bottom.

It’s like watching a drunk trying to take his first step towards the bathroom. Gertrude KNOWS what she’s supposed to do. She sees us doing it all the time. She just doesn’t understand the mechanics of it.

To put it in terms that we can understand . . . Imagine looking at a list of components for a rocket. You know what the rocket is supposed to look like. You know what it’s supposed to do. You may even be able to piece together a rudimentary rocket from basic knowledge. But without practice and study, you won’t be able to make a functioning rocket. In essence, you’ll fall on your not so padded butt pretty frequently.

We take our ability to walk and talk for granted. To be a baby must be frustrating at times. I’m sure she KNOWS what she wants to communicate or do. She just doesn’t have the knowledge base to do so. She can’t control her own body yet.

Still . . . to see that look of sheer joy on her face when she stands on her own, mustering the courage to take a step . . . It’s all I can do to not sweep her up in my arms and give her a big hug.