jumping for the vertically challenged

My dad grew up in a small town. My mom grew up in a really big city, the kind that eats small towns for lunch. I was born in that same monstrous metroplex. This accident of birth may explain why my mom and I love sprawling malls and chlorinated pools. Meanwhile, my dad sort of secretly believes that the whole world knows that he is Roseby Wright's son and therefore should be afforded certain rights and privileges--the last room at a packed hotel, the freedom to pause rather than stop at an intersection. It's an attitude that amounts to: "civis campbellsvillus sum."

When I was a little girl, we spent at least a week each summer in Dad's hometown. We ate gigantic tomatoes and went calling on people and hugged on teeny-tiny great-aunts. I had a matching pair of them--Mae and Bootsie. They were my grandfather's older sisters and though they were in their seventies by the time I was born, they always seemed like perfect playmates. This was in part because of their propensity to get the giggles and in part because they were about my size. My grandfather, all 5'6'' of him, towered over them.

What can I say? We Wrights are a short people. So it should come as no surprise that once, we were sitting down to a meal at my grandparents' table and I wasn't really able to reach my plate properly. I needed a booster seat, but this was the 80s and people didn't have such things in their own homes. They didn't have bouncy seats either. It was the dark ages.

When my mother asked if we could use the phone book (a tried and true substitute in the big city) my grandparents looked baffled. Mom repeated the request until they acquiesced. The county phone book was about as wide as a standard bible and not a whole inch thick. Cue the giggles.

Jack has just about reached the age where he can start enjoying some slightly more "active" toys. He's just shy of four months and definitely more alert every day. He also reaches for things constantly and sometimes control his hands enough to grab and object and inevitably put it in his mouth.

One of my major sources of mother guilt is that when I am at work, we are always together and I get the chance to cuddle him and nurse him, but we don't do a lot of serious play. I think he gets bored by the end of the day and I know he gets tired of moving from one reclining position to another. So last night when we got home, we pulled out the jumperoo to give it a try and found a familiar problem. (Note the distance between feet and floor.)

Lucky for us, we remembered a familiar solution. It's just a good thing that our city is growing so fast!