Steps

So I think it's fair to say that Cleo can now, for all intents and purposes, walk. Sure, she often wavers and veers, as though she's navigating the deck of a galleon in gale conditions, and she sometimes still extends her tiny hands upwards, refusing to move until she can wrap her fingers around a proffered hand. But she's been tottering about for more several weeks now, and has walked, unassisted, across rooms, playgrounds, sidewalks, and at least one church crypt. Where we were used to a relatively static little playpal, we've now got an avid explorer on our hands.

In turn, I've caught myself, at several moments, feeling as though our job as parents is complete. We'd obviously been looking forward to this moment for several months, and now that it's here, there's a part of me that sees Cleo as complete, as autonomous. You can walk, kid: now get out there and see the world, and please remember to drop us a postcard from time to time.

But while Cleo may be good at dropping some things - she was honing her uh-ohs this morning while raining Crayons onto the dining room floor from a chair - postcards from exotic locales may have to wait. After all, as I'm finding out, the girl's still only one. And even though I feel a strong sense of attainment, on her behalf, she's still developing in a hundred other directions. Steps are nice - but they're only steps to other steps.

Thinking about it today, while she lurched across a wooden tie at the Tot Lot, I concluded that this precise stage of parenting feels like that moment in learning an instrument when a student learns scales for the first time. This white key is a C, this black key a C#; this fret on the second string is an F, and this one's a G. Learn those positions, and the whole instrument seems to snap into focus. But what feels like an accomplishment is also only a beginning. Now that the notes are familiar, it's time to compose melodies.