Don't worry: (Your) children develop at their own pace!

This is an apology post for all of the obnoxious things I said about your slow-to-walk/slow-to-talk/slow-to-whatever child. That I owe you an apology, occurred to me, as I drove home from an unbearable half hour with Claire and Ava at Marshall's (I had a return, but where else could someone feel so compelled to offset that credit with things to buy!). I spent the half hour issuing the girls instructions that were confusing to all of us (stay close! Well, reasonably close. No, closer than that. NO! Not that close!). We went through this with touching things, which started with "touch nothing" and ended with something weaker like "well, if you are reasonably sure something is breakable, touch it but don't pick it up". By the time we left, I was very grumpy and, at one point, gave Ava a little shove with the cart to demonstrate how she had been hanging onto it all through the store, steering us into everything.

Safely in the car, I felt bad about my behavior and apologized to those two adoring little faces in the back seat. "Mommy", said Ava, "I love you". She has been telling me that so often lately that I've started responding "I know" to see if she notices. She does not. All of this got me thinking about my parenting style which falls somewhere between exhausted and irritable. I'm not really tired, but tired of them. That sounds awful but I fear it is almost true. My own parents were tirelessly consistent with my brother, sister and me. I get tired just thinking about how consistent they were all day long every day of the year for countless years. My brother and sister inherited the consistency gene and my neices and nephews listen carefully for instructions and then follow them. I don't think my siblings spend 20 minutes a day on yelling. Maybe their offspring will be available to bail mine out of jail.

Driving down Lyons Plains, I turned my thoughts to something more edifying: Harriette started walking last week! It is not very impressive to see ... more of a knock-kneed hobble than a walk. She is only willing to do it when the stakes are very low (over carpet, between closely-placed pieces of furniture) or potential rewards are high (many present adults to shout praises from the sidelines). Frankly, she is a little lazy about it and, while I was hoping it would not be necessary, I was thinking of buying her a wheelchair. I admit I felt a WAVE OF RELIEF when she finally took a few consecutive steps so I could stop calculating her age in months plus one to imagine how I would have to confess to her one day "My darling, you walked at EIGHTY-FOUR months. For reference, your sisters walked at twelve". Between months 12 and 16, you wouldn't believe all of the confessions I got from helpful friends ("my neice's best friend walked at 20 months" etc). Terrifying!

What I am trying to say (Yes! What IS she trying to say?) is that it now seems obvious to me that I was a wee bit smug about my first two babies walking at 12 months. How else would I be disappointed with Harriette? I mean, if I hadn't been secretly crediting my own mothering for Claire's and Ava's walking ability, how would I feel failure when one of mine was slithering around like a snake with babes half her age leaping over her like hurdlers? I am sorry. So so sorry. The shame of having a not-walking, 16 month old has kept me from apologizing until now.