My son, for the love of all things holy, has started to walk. I wouldn't say he's quite mastered the art yet (uneven ground and shoes still trip him up on occasion), but he's getting there. Rapidly. And as I watched him cruise across the grass the other day, with that strange little waddle of his, I thought, I know that walk. I've seen that walk.
What is that walk?
Is it a swagger? Can't be. He's just a toddler and toddlers do not swagger (particularly if they are the progeny of Klutzy McGee, aka This Guy). Strut? Saunter? Prance? Sashay? Seriously. Where did that walk come from? Where have I seen it before?
And then, suddenly, it dawns on me. My son walks exactly like this:
I'm not kidding. It's hilarious.
Maybe it's just me. I've been a Chaplin fan for a long time, so that might have something to do with it. In fact, I went out for Halloween as the Little Tramp when I was in the 4th grade (seriously, what 4th grader has ever even heard of Chaplin?). One of my favorite childhood stories to recount is of the little old lady whose doorbell we rang, who looked at me (and my tiny moustache, I presume) and thought that I was dressed as Hitler. Because, obviously, any parent would allow their child to go out trick-or-treating as Der Fuhrer. And while I've always considered this an amusing anecdote, one aspect of it has lately begun to trouble me. In hindsight, that woman did not seem remotely offended nor concerned that I was an 8 year-old kid dressed as the most evil man in the history of the world. Why is that, I wonder?
But I digress. My son walks just like the Little Tramp. Maybe I'll have to dress him up as the character for Halloween. Imagine a toddler version of Chaplin. How ridiculously adorable would that be?
Seriously, though, where did this strange, marvelous little creature really come from?
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