Life requires a stock of stamina. You don’t have to tell that to a 7-month-old.
I marvel at the amount that must be learned – walking, talking, eating, even sleeping to the rhythm of sun and moon. Grasping, clapping, standing, jumping, and trying to do them all at once.
I don’t have the moxie to be a baby.
Bronson persists. He stands on two feet, his hands positioned against his dresser drawer. His face tells me he is keenly aware of what he’s doing. He looks down to examine his feet. Yes, they’re holding him up. After a moment or two, he removes one hand, curiously examines it, then looks at me.
Are you watching mom?
He grins wide-eyed, his neck taut, the kind of expression that’s filled with joy, pride and intensity. He’s getting an adrenaline kick.
And then that expression kicks in – ‘pride comes before the fall’ – and plop!, he’s on his butt or caught by my arms.
Falling doesn’t get babies down. Bronson cranes to get back up, looks at me like ‘what-are-you-doing-mom?-stand-me-up-already’. And when I do, instead of being more cautious, he’s a daredevil. He removes both hands. And isn’t alarmed at all when he falls.
There’s no embarrassment, no consideration of concession.
Only joy in perseverance.