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May 12, 2003
Julian turned one recently, and with the passage into the second year has come the astounding rate of change and acquisition of knowledge that captivates every parent. First, several weeks ago, the ability to pull himself up to that marvelous wobbly standing position - accompanied always by a beautiful proud chuckle, as though he were amazed to find that his body could perform yet another feat he didn't know about the day before. This accomplishment also brought with it a new level of fatigue in us similar to that of the first three months, since every time we put him in his crib to nap or sleep, he would scramble up to his feet to show off. Just as the loss of sleep during those first months was irrelevant compared to the joy and wonder of watching our new baby sleep and, well, just exist, the same deprivation during this period becomes unimportant when I enter his room in the morning and he's there standing, perfectly unsteady but probably feeling like he's conquered the universe, giggling, little fingers hooked over the crib, saying, "Eeehh, didi" ("Morning, Dad! Check THIS out!")
Equally funny are the conversations in the bath. Each time he bathes I feel I'm in danger of either overheating him or turning his skin prune-like, since, once he's in there, I don't want to take him out. It's too cute--and far too much fun to watch him slap his little red cup against the water while shouting, "Dehdehdehdeh!"; or to try eliciting a laughing fit by ducking my head in and out of sight; or just to pound the water along with him. During these performances he'll sometimes pause, engaged by some discovery, then turn his eyes to me and say, quite thoughtfully, "Deeeehhmamayaaahedehdeh," then perhaps spill some water out of the red cup, then look at me again and say something like, "Ahhbanehnehdehdaaahh." My responses to him ("Yes, I'm very proud of you", or, "That certainly is interesting") are often met with a slight nod or an expression in the eyes that seems to say, "Glad you understand" before he returns to his splashing. Often a person's eyes say more than words every can. Every conversation with an infant reinforces this. Hours later, in bed, I realize that these conversations are richer than any others I have. I can't wait to tell him, years from now, that I derived more meaning from our bathtime diagloues than the most profound conversations with adults during the same period. Why? Because he knew what he was saying, and whether I could understand exactly what it was didn't matter a bit.
No sooner had Julian learned to pull himself up than he started to reach his hands out. I didn't understand this at first. After a few such supplications I realized it: he wanted to try walking. How do they know to do this? How do their bodies tell them it's time? All parents ask themselves these questions, of course, but none of us arrive at an answer because there isn't the opportunity--you're too excited to lend a hand (or two index fingers). If the first year has taught me anything, it's that, no matter how funny the thing is they're doing currently, something funnier is around the corner. Julian's experiments with walking make me both endlessly joyous and deeply proud, even though he's just following the path of normal physical development. More than anything, as is the case with so many milestones, my fascination is in the simple, but inexpressibly profound, witness of watching a person find out what their body can do. Julian's first steps reminded me of the ape in Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey who inadvertently discovers he can use a bone as a weapon. Once having made this discovery, he becomes obsessed. Julian, having discovered that his legs can move his from place to place, is like an Olympian practicing until he drops from exhaustion. While fixing myself a snack in the kitchen or sitting on the couch or typing at the keyboard, I'll suddenly feel a pair of little hands tugging at my jeans and hear a little voice giggling, "Hehheh! Dehdehdidiaahhhhh," and then he's standing, my legs the scaffold, reaching out to practice again. We'll go from room to room, his little knees lifting higher than they need to, his feet coming down not quite when they're supposed to, his voice celebrating the progression with every step. The value to him is simple: he's learning how to walk. The value to me is perhaps even greater: I appreciate that I can.
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