Archer didn't walk until he was seventeen-months old. At the time, it seemed serious. Worrisome. All the other kids we met on play-dates and park slides were walking much earlier.
"My son walked at ten-months."
"Mine at twelve."
"Mine was late and didn't walk until he was thirteen."
I have a whole chapter devoted to Archer's late walking in my book -- of being self-conscious, feeling like I had to explain myself, him
I was convinced he'd crawl forever - had dreams about him attending his first day of High School on hand and knee.
Archer finally walked on Halloween, 2006. He was seventeen-months old.
After that I scolded myself for having spent so much time worrying. Pushing. Pleading with him to walk like the other kids his age. Just as I did when Archer talked late and suddenly started speaking full sentences. Regretted having spent so much unnecessary time and energy engaging my worry. Pressuring him and myself.
He was late but who cares? Why did I?
It is a mother's nature to worry, especially when everywhere she turns she is handed information about other children - statistics about what is "normal" and what is not. But the second time around, worry isn't as commonplace. At least it hasn't been for me.
Fable turned fifteen-months last week and is still not walking. She's been standing for two-months now with no desire to move. Meanwhile friends of mine with kids her age have been walking for months, much like it was with Archer. We gave her a shopping cart, a walker but much like her big brother she couldn't care less about walking on her own. She likes to crawl. Stand to say hello and then drop to her knees and crawl off into the sunset. And this time around? I couldn't care less.
Because I know she'll get there in her own time. When she's ready. A whole life ahead of her to move forward on foot.

Yesterday, she took a single-step and crouched back down, crawled to me. Clapped for herself before nuzzling her little face in my neck. And any day now she'll walk across the living room floor. Down the hall. Into my arms. And then that will be that. No more dirty knees. No more scuffed shoes. And, this time? No regretting having pushed her to do anything before she's ready.
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