At Riley's checkup on Friday the nurse asked if he was stacking blocks. "Yessssssss," I slowly, my eyes moving shiftily around the room as I coated the nurse's clipboard with a fine spray of saliva. "Uh, yes. Absolutely. Why, he's stacking things night and day, creating giant towering structures the likes mankind has never seen before! BOW BEFORE MY SON, THE ARCHITECTURAL GENIUS."
The architectural genius currently blowing a glistening snot bubble from his left nostril while methodically pounding his own foot with a plastic cabinet lock, that is.
Actually, I don't really have any clue if Riley can stack blocks or not, because he doesn't have any blocks. He had some giant Lego type blocks for a while, but I kept finding them in inconvenient places: under the fridge, dropped casually into the cat's food bool, deeply embedded in the sole of my foot, etc.
So now of course I'm wondering if I have been stunting his growth by denying him access to blocks. I didn't think blocks were one of those developmental necessities, like oxygen or healthy food or the Noggin Network, but it was right there on the nurse's (moistened) clipboard: "STACKING BLOCKS?"
I always feel woefully unprepared for these progress-related questions. I wish they'd ask something easy, like "Is your child able to pull his entire arm out of his zip-up pajamas, so he's half-naked when you get him up in the morning, his torso partially exposed and most of his sleeve sodden from being lustfully chewed?" -- because if that were a recognized milestone my son would be gratifyingly right on target.