I remember when West was about one month old thinking, "having a baby is actually not all that difficult." And I don't think I was wrong to believe that in that particular moment.

This is where I'll take a minute to publicly declare that I am aware not all babies are the same. And that it just so happens we got a baby who decided to be unbelievably chill. He came that way. This child was born with cucumbers over his eyes and sipping a mai tai. The hospital wrote down on his medical records under blood type, "hemp and a Xanax." His heart rate is only one beat per day, and that's usually not even until after lunch.

When I tell people our baby has been "easy," I usually follow it up with a whole pharmaceutical commercial's worth of legal disclosures because I never want to be an Internet Parent who thinks their child is perfect and their parenting skills are the reason for it.

"It's not because of anything we've done," I'll caveat. And I really mean it. I don't think our baby has been easy because Skylar and I are model parents. I think he's an easy baby because we're hot.

We don't know what we're doing. We've read zero parenting books. Well, that's actually not true. Skylar started reading one but I burned it like a fascist as soon as he informed me chapter three suggested breast-fed babies are more loved.

We're not great at keeping a schedule. Every time I see a parent on social media brag that they methodically introduced their child to 1,000 different foods in nine days and had him sleep-trained by a colony of bats, I just turn off the internet. For the whole county. Sorry if you forgot to save your work first.

We've just sort of parented by vibes. He politely lets us know when he's ready for a nap or for bed. Same with food. He's just a great hang generally.

And again, I really, truly, think he just came that way. That we got so lucky. I like to say it was so difficult to become parents that god was like, "I'ma go ahead and give them a break on this one." Then she sent us a cherubim who was in the middle of an ayahuasca trip.

There was a rational part of me that knew the other shoe would drop at some point. Enough people said some variation to me of "if your baby is easy, your toddler will be the spawn of Satan." I could never tell if they were just informing me that out of resentment, but I swear some of them did sound almost hopeful that they were right.

I kept waiting, and waiting. And nothing was really changing, besides the fact that this baby began to develop an exceptional sense of humor. My new favorite thing is if you ask him if he's a sweet boy he'll start to slowly shake his head while grinning.

Give him a Netflix special and a Vegas residency already.

Then, finally, last week. At exactly 1:19PM o'clock. Just as the Earth was transversing the dawning of Vagarious. Venus was in line with juniper. Walmart was in retrograde.

Just then, this previously immobile child took one small crawl for baby, and one giant leap for inconvenience.

We knew crawling was coming. We'd been tracking his peers via text with their parents. The first tadpoles had already begun their beach descent or ascent or whatever.

"Brace yourselves," these friends had told us, ominously.

Once my child figured out if you just put one knee over to the wherever and use your hand to do that other thing then you can travel across great distances autonomously, he never looked back.

He is now crawling at 27 miles per hour. That would get him a ticket and a $200 fine in a school zone.

He sprints across the room. It doesn't even look like his body is touching the floor anymore. And he LAUGHS as he does it. The laugh sounds maniacal. I can't prove it, but I think he might have been a witch in a prior life. (A cute one with a great personality.)

We have erected so many gates in our home we now technically live in an airport. The dogs just circle him as he moves, creating a biological tornado that destroys everything in its path.

The very first thing he went for was an outlet, which he immediately tried to put into his mouth.

We've now baby proofed every cabinet so securely that not even we know how to open them. We consider all that area dead space at this point and have just started buying replacement products for the cleaning supplies under the sink we'll never see again.

He wakes us up in the morning by yelping, which we hear through the baby intercom. We walk into the nursery and find him standing on both feet, holding onto the bars of his crib, and grinning at us like he just devised a new plan to take over the world and the only thing that stands between him and that is figuring out how to escape his baby prison.

All things considered, he's still a chill hang. He's still sleeping well and being funny. But dear lord.

I never anticipated having to bend down so many times an hour in my 40s.

Some one give me some hemp and a Xanax.

~It Just Gets Stranger