TwoBert is almost 7 months old and absolutely desperate to start crawling. He's spent much of the last month on his belly, arms locked, while his little flagella beat with a force that could whip skim milk into cake frosting. Now that he's learned how to get a foothold on the floor, he can sense that forward locomotion isn't far off. So he thrusts with great urgency, reaching for all that will soon be attainable, but all he ends up doing is hump-hump-humping the floor and bobbing his head like a teen-aged headbanger--until his arms give way and he bangs his head.
This is exactly how I feel as the end of the year approaches. I spend almost all of my day spinning my wheels, working at one of my three jobs, and at day's end all I feel I have to show for it is an inch of progress and a slight headache.
The all-work-and-no-play syndrome is starting to take its toll, because the relentless ubiquity of In-Your-Face-Christmas is rankling me more than usual. I might just be reacting to the sheer length of the season, because retailers have been piping in the holiday schmaltz since well before the pumpkins rotted. But if I hear one more overwrought chanteuse croon about building Parson Brown out of snow, I might just snap my cap and become a Mennonite.
Like TwoBert shows me every evening, sometimes the best way to get anywhere in this world is to roll over.