Climbing

You are climbing. Everywhere. You climb onto the coffee table and you stand up and walk around. You climb up into your stroller when it’s parked by the door. This morning you climbed onto mom’s vanity in the bedroom from the chair next to it. You are trying to climb up the bookshelf in your bedroom. You are also trying to walk up and down stairs now. Crawling up the steps will simply not do. You are in perpetual motion, upward. Agile and unafraid. You want to soar and explore. Test gravity. Anywhere you can, you leverage yourself, find hand grips and toeholds, raise your knee and hip, ascend. I don’t necessarily want to stop you but I can’t always let you and I’m afraid of what you’ll try when I’m not around. The parent’s dilemma.  

The days are good. It is the end of summer, slow and warm. Mom and I laugh a lot in the house. You too. I am working on my book and I am not teaching this year. I am swimming a lot and reading and writing. I take you to the park and the playground and we go for walks around campus. You come with me in the car to Sam’s Club and HomeGoods. I put on records and you dance. You put on headphones and I play songs for you on my keyboard. I chase you around the kitchen island. We go to your room and snuggle our faces against stuffed animals and fill the piggy bank with coins and drape towels over our heads. You feed Apricot her treats and dental chews. You imitate me when I stretch or when I swat a fly. Together we explore the trees and the flowers in the backyard. You smile when you see Mom and me hug. The days are magic. These moments together in the cosmos. Autumn, my daughter, scaling the mountains of your world, while holding my hand. This year will be wondrous and close.