… something to write home about.

Sometime in February, I grabbed a Roomba off of Woot during a woot-off. I got it partially because we are notoriously bad at vacuuming and with the baby about we need the bits and pieces gone.

And, partially, because it is so freaking cool – a robot! In my house! Vacuuming! Jane, get me off this crazy thing!

Fast forward a couple of months… the baby has been sitting up for quite a while on his own but dislikes ‘tummy time’ and has no inclination to crawl about. That’s fine, it means I don’t have to proof stuff for a bit longer. I set him down, put toys within reach and he is a happy camper.

Then the Roomba comes on. It does its little start up chime and a few seconds later it starts its whirring, backs out from underneath the ancient radio and starts Doing It’s Thing. It works its way around the room and the baby is simply fascinated. It moves. It makes noise. It is cool!

After a while, it works its way over to where the baby is at and gently bumps into him and then turns away. I’m waiting in vain for him to cry, weep, gnash gums but no, he is still simply fascinated.

That’s my boy.

After a couple of days, he is still watching it, rapt, and I watch him lean over and voila! He is on all fours, watching it. The next day, same thing. Nothing else seems to be worth the effort of trying to crawl except for when the Roomba is going. Each day he is a little more brave and tries a little more until he is actually crawling about, always facing the Roomba as it moves. He learned that it is hard to crawl on the hard wood floor so for a couple of days he is stuck crawling on the area rug, but desire is a strong motivator and he learns to sit on the wood, lean over and scoot across the slick surface.

This is the undoing of the Roomba, unfortunately.

Prior to the conquest of the hard wood floor, the Roomba could always retreat under the radio to charge and hide out until the next day at its appointed time. With the invention of scooting, the Roomba is vulnerable in its lair and, even worse, has glowing symbols on its surface that beg to be pressed. Power. Max. Spot.

Clean.

Yes, the boy learned to start the robot at will and now the poor wretched mechanical must dance to the whim and attention span of a highly inquisitive and perpetually happy one year old. Who can now crawl on carpet and hard wood flooring and thinks it is great fun to start the Roomba and then chase it throughout the living room, kitchen and hall until the battery dies and it sits forlornly, a pulsing red power button the only sign of any life left in its carapace.

If the elder boy’s memoir is “Don’t Bite The Dog And Other Things I Never Thought I’d Have To Say” then the younger boy’s might be “Leave The Roomba Alone Already” or perhaps “Stop Teasing The Roomba!”.

Yeah, I’m still working on that title.