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He’s all grins as he holds on to the handrail and tries to take the step.
He stumbles, of course, short legs longer in his imagination than they are in real life. I wonder how tall he thinks he is in his head. Surely longer than the 25th percentile they tell us at the doctor’s office. My poor little shrimpy guy.
He scurries up stairs again, eyes set on the prize: the slide, the biggest one he can find. And yet, when he gets there, he can’t remember how to sit down. He needs Mommy – before Sissy finds him and shoves him down.
My David-bug is the version of tough and brave you only are at nearly-15-months: irrationally, spastic, and overwhelmingly sure that you can do everything. The place where I’m not quite sure whether to let him attempt the hard climbs or rescue him before he kills himself.
It’s my first taste of son-raising. Libbie was typical-girl-cautious. She certainly had her stair-tumbles, but never the moment of staring at me, smile canyon-wide, stepping down without fear of falling.