My granddaughter learned to crawl. This is extraordinary. And commonplace.

Almost every child her age has done as much, and yet the wonder I feel as she discovers that the far side of the room is within reach is enough to make me cry. 

 

Last month she did not know this. If her mother plopped her down on the rug she stayed there. It was up to the people around her to put interesting things in a circle with her as the center, and to keep dangerous ones out of it. 

 

The linchpin between a few weeks ago and now included a few incongruent elements. Curiosity. An increase in upper body strength. Clothes that don't restrict her. There was a period when I put one of my daughters in frilly dresses, which worked fine when she was stationary but as she made it over the threshold of movement had to learn how to keep the skirts out of the way. She managed, but I helped her out by switching to pants. 

 

A good chunk of the thrust into mobility is frustration. Staying put is no longer comfortable. Without being able to articulate it, which is of course irrelevant when you are dealing with a nine month old, she called on inner resources. The ones that have been embedded in every baby throughout history. The ones that beckon them to find out what you cannot articulate. 

 

"You are capable of more."

 

The wordless whisper inside her plum sized heart made it pump a little harder. The sweat on her wrinkled forehead lubricated her determination. Except that babies don't sweat. Her knees were up to the task, joints that up until then hadn't been asked to do anything more strenuous than balance her in a sitting position. 

 

Her mother knew that the shift was coming. Though there was no point in explaining that. Or drawing diagrams. Even offering rewards. Or punishing her for not believing. Plus there was no disappointment that she wasn't crawling three months ago. 

 

It was up to her to lean into the discovery.