Taking shape

As the tomato vines on the western side of our house grow, and spread, and as the teams in the National League begin to tend towards their various destined positions (welcome to the cellar, Pirates! what took you so long?), babies born last summer also sprout, in ways that could also be called inexorable - if only vaguely predictable.

A year ago, of course, the idea of tiny Cleo ever walking seemed ludicrous to us. How could such a small being ever even learn to hold her head up, let alone to stand? And yet, just as the books said she would, she learned to look about, and then to sit, and then, on a February day, to crawl. Now she climbs the 14 stairs of our staircase with little trouble, pours water as though she were a Bernini triton, and totters around the edges of tables, and cabinets, and bathtubs.

And her friends? They, too, have sprouted. One, whom we met for the first time last week, just started taking her first free steps. Another June baby, down the street, now enjoys slow walks around the block, with her parents ambling nearby, and holds up a steady finger when asked how old she is. And a third, with whom we played on Friday, loves pushing carts, and plastic trucks, and hampers about the room. Each child's an individual - that much is clear, even after a few minutes of observation - but each seems to obey, too, a larger logic, an invisible pattern of growth.

In the November 11, 1911 issue of Musical Times, Ernest Newman wrote that "All really good form has the air of an improvisation, like a flower or crystal; the moment you can detect the joins in a piece of music, or see the reflective, deliberate processes by which a given section of it has been built up, all illusion as to its being an organic growth necessarily vanishes." If we agree with him, we might also say that parenting an infant is like listening to a musical composition with an excellent form. The child grows, and gradually develops an arsenal of abilities, and habits. But at no point are the joins garishly exposed, or baldly visible. Instead, they simply happen, as though destined. One day, you hold a wee swaddled, inert infant in your arms. A year later, she scoots across the room towards you on hands and knees, pulls on your pant leg, hoists herself up, and looks at you, expectantly.