It’s a marathon; not a sprint

It could be the latent banker in me but I can’t shake off my inherent competitive streak (and desperate need to win). This thought struck me last night when I realised, tossing and turning in a bout of irritating insomnia, that the reason for my wakefulness was the niggling sense that some competitions are beyond my control and no amount of rehearsal, ambition or perseverance will bring race victory. The competition in mind, shameful as it is to admit to, is that of the baby Olympics – Baby-Bel is letting the side down in her seeming tardiness in the mobility stakes.

It secretly (or not so secretly as Mr A informs me) frustrates me that she is not hitting the targets in the Gantt chart of baby milestones – and it’s not just the ‘advanced child’ milestones she’s missing. Since failing to meet Mr A’s (random) deadline of learning to crawl by Christmas, he has gallantly admitted defeat and wisely adopted a laissez faire approach to the whole proceeding. Not me. I have tried and tested all researched methods Google has to offer and wasted the money equivalent on crawl aids proffered by ELC, to no avail. As my sister (whose son wasn’t exactly Speedy Gonzales in the walking stakes) wisely said, ‘It’s not as if they’re never going to walk so what’s the problem’. Fair point.

The point I guess is that I like coming first – I revelled in coming at the top of the pile in my school exams, I like(d) being in the top tier industry for earnings, and I like to run faster and further than the guy next to me on the treadmill. Whoever said that it’s the taking part that counts was clearly not the one who won that race. What is more vexing is that I allegedly walked (unaided) at a competitively earlier than average age. So in theory, this should have worked to Baby-Bel’s genetic advantage. Until I learned that Mr A (much to his amusement) was so late in walking that MiL thought he had a biomechanical issue. Problem route cause determined then but not solved.

But maybe, just maybe, she is smarter than I give her credit for – if I could be ferried around 24/7 and spoonfed (that’s her other issue: she refuses to feed herself and sits open-mouthed akin to a baby bird), why would I consider doing any of it myself? More fool the woman pandering to her every wish surely (that would be me).

Vis a vis her social peers she may now look like the proverbial tortoise racing the hare but we all know the outcome of that one. Or so I keep telling myself.


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