My baby Genevieve is a wild thing. She loves to steal underwear, pull it over her head, and crawl around with her vision blocked. She growls at me if I take the underwear away. Then she tries to scale Max's slide to his loft bed, with his Sponge Bob underpants in her teeth. She loves getting away with things.
Which is why I feel for her, still not walking. She's nearly 21 months old and demands my pinky for support as she dashes around. If I withdraw my finger from her grasp, she collapses to the floor and flails around, grasping for it.
For a long time, it didn't bother me. I've never believed in rushing children and I know they have their unique gifts and qualities. But there was a girl today, a month younger, running all around, climbing on benches, scooting off and I felt almost ashamed that Genevieve was so incapacitated comparitively.
I know she wants it. No, that's not right. It's as if she thinks she is walking, dragging me around with her. She's so content. She loves clapping, jumping on Max's head, rolling on the lawn with her daddy, blowing kisses. She loves herself. I'm trying to let that suffice, for now.
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