OK, this might be harder than I thought.

I really thought I had this down. We had a baby. We fed him, clothed him and got him to sleep at a reasonable hour. Eight months later, he's still alive. Say, this isn't so tough, is it?

Then he start crawling. He may as well have turned, stared me in the eye and said, "It's ON, muthafucka."

Suddenly what appeared to be a cozy apartment has been revealed to be a hellish deathtrap of skull-smashing table corners, strangling blinds, high-voltage cords and horrible toxins of all descriptions. Not a second goes by when I'm not making a diving save just a Junior is about to pull over a 500-pound bookcase or chomp into a lamp cord.

This, my friends, adds a whole new dimension to things.

See, the problem is that "crawling" implies that he moves a rather leisurely pace. Not true; the minute he figured out how to do it, he began scrambling around the house like a feral cat trapped in a cage.

Secondly, it's not correct to say that he can crawl, because that implies that he does it occasionally, and for a certain period of time. Uh-uh. No, he simply crawls; the moment you place him on the ground, he is in a constant state of motion until you dash over to where he is about to kill himself and pick him up.

I can't emphasize enough the gravity of this situation. What it means is this: I can never relax again. If he crawls, he is in a contant state of mortal peril. If you prevent him from crawling in some way, he squirms and screams like a banshee. And he can't sleep forever.

So in short, it is indeed on. And I am indeed scared.

OK, I suck.

Well, there hasn't been a day that's gone by that I haven't thought about getting back into this. And up to now, there hasn't been a day that I actually have.

But I can't let this get by me. I think my moment of clarity came to me where most of us go to think deep thoughts -- Pottery Barn. As we moved from Tuscan to Farmhouse to the next example of Chinese mass-manufactured Old World charm, I glanced down to see my little guy staring back at me with the most misty, trusting, doe-eyed look of bliss and paternal love imaginable; it almost knocked me into the Milano smoking chair. If it hadn't happened before, we had that Special Bonding Moment.

Of course, he was 15 seconds from falling asleep and more than a bit loopy -- I'm sure he would have offered a paper towel that same beautific stare of adoration. But would I remember this five years from now? Five days from now?

So I'm back to blogging. I picked a good week to start. Because after months of baby steps, Junior brought his A-game. He's learned to crawl, sit up, pull himself up and can even pick up, rotate and pop in his pacifier -- not bad! (Although he often bends himself in half to suck it off the floor rather than simply reaching down to grab it, but, hey, he's trying.)

OK, so that leaves about six months in the Dark Ages. So let's see. Well, he's gone from a pooping loaf of bread to a good-natured little guy with a hearty chuckle and a profound love of pat-a-cake and "Row, Row, Row, Your Boat" to an energetic little hellcat who enjoys nothing more than a good workout in the bouncy chair, followed by rolling wildly toward the edge of the bed toward certain head trauma the minute his diaper comes off. (Speaking of diaper off, he's also discovered "little Jamie" in a big way and seems quite disappointed that he can't twist him off for a closer look. Trust me kid, you'll be glad you didn't.)

He's mastered parrot sqawks, dolphin squeals, "fa" noises and the occasional string of faux words. He loves to pound on the floors. Neighbor loves this not so much. And the highlight of his day is bathtime with mom. Taking swim lessons as well -- maybe he's found his calling early? Although given his current jumbo size -- he easily fits into 12-month+ clothes at seven months -- basketball may be more his thing.

But above all else, he's happy. He smiles, he laughs, he claps -- he seems to be having an OK time. Which means maybe we don't totally suck as parents. And that's good.