She is on the verge of being able to crawl. Adorable for me, frustrating for her. I love seeing her little butt wriggling in the air, but she just seems fed up with never actually GETTING anywhere. She has worked out this ability to torque her body and thereby slowly spiral it around in widening circles. Long way to travel a short distance. I worsen the situation by keeping her toys constantly just out of reach. Early goal-directed behavior. Or just more fun for mom.
It makes me think about how I take for granted being able to get wherever I want without thinking twice. Most of my patients are elderly folks, with cataracts or macular degeneration or any number of other things, who don’t move around real easily either. Today one patient told me, “you looked beautiful walking around so quickly. I kept watching you walk past. I used to be one of those fast walkers.” She had broken her leg years ago and now hobbles places slowly on a cane. You don’t think about it until it’s gone, she said.
But there are a host of skills one develops by going through the world more slowly. E has these. She observes intensely. She notices small details, like a piece of loose thread on my sweater or the tag on her stuffed bear. She rests a lot. And when she does finally get there: unabashed squeals of glee, all around.
She is so tender. She feels like silken tofu, and sometimes I want to eat her up. I’ll have you with ketchup, I tell her, and a pickle on the side.
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