Motherhood FAIL of the Week: Walk the Line, Please

Well my friends, it appears as though the Muffin Man has inherited more than his fair share of my subpar genes.  At the ripe old age of 16 months, my kiddo is still not walking.  To be honest with you I wasn't all that concerned about it, mainly because I'm a Beta Parent and it's just not in my nature to worry about stuff like that, but also because I'm exhausted and I can barely keep up with a kiddo who crawls, let alone one who walks.  Our Pediatrician, on the other hand, is concerned about it, because, well, that's his job.  When I took Noah in for his check-up last week and delivered the news that no, in fact, my son is not running into the street or even walking into the street, I was told in no uncertain terms that I needed to get Noah some physical therapy.  Oh, fantastic.  I'm currently 40 months pregnant, it's hotter than Hell outside, and now I have to somehow find the time and the energy to get my remedial walker some physical therapy?!  Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery.

Despite outward appearances, I do try to be a good parent, so I've bitten the bullet and made some phone calls.  The nice thing is that until the age of three all children in the state of California are eligible for FREE physical therapy, so that does soften the blow a little bit, as I had visions of $60 insurance co-pays three times a week dancing through my head.

Here's the real crux of the situation however: I'm afraid that my adorable, sweet, lovely little boy just might be as uncoordinated and unathletic as his Mother.  I shudder to think that I may be facing a future of my kiddo being picked last for sports and being made fun of because he falls over his own two feet.  I sincerely hoped to avoid this fate for my children by procreating with a man who has natural athletic ability and was not, unlike yours truly, the first one pegged during Dodge Ball.  I assumed that my uncoordinated dork genes would be no match for the Hubby's sporty ones, and I would end up the proud parent of an athletically-inclined son destined for an awesome high school sports career and all the pussy that seems to go hand in hand with that.

I will, of course, support Noah on whatever path he chooses to take (except acting or the restaurant business, natch) and will proudly show up for art shows or computer science fairs or whatever other nerdly pursuit he might be drawn to if his remedial walking skills turn out to be an indicator of his athletic ability.  I'm really putting a lot of faith in this whole physical therapy thing, though, because I would hate to miss out on an entire four years of checking out cute high school boys in their baseball uniforms.