I wish I could remember who said it, but somewhere someone said, "I can remember when my daughter walked across a room for the very first time." I think I read it when my own daughter was a baby and it stuck with me because I wondered when she'd walk and what it would feel like. I knew I had a late walker on my hands because I didn't walk until I was a good 18 months, and my child has pork chop thighs and an affinity for reading and no real desire to move. Crawling has never appealed. She's been walking small steps for two months now, holding onto our hands. A couple of days ago, she took a few steps back and forth between my husband and me in the kitchen. But today she blazed through the kitchen. One wall to the other. Hands out in front of her like a baby Frankenstein. Back and forth. Sturdy as a tank. I felt undeniably proud of her, and undeniably terrified, and now I am trying not too think too hard about it as I collapse on the sofa for the remainder of the evening (or the rest of my life).
