A New World

A couple nights ago, I ruined our daughter. We had a good thing going—she had a nice, safe play area, more than large enough for someone who crawls and pulls themselves up on things. Even large enough for someone who takes a few, halting steps. And it was completely contained. Elaina couldn't get out, couldn't get into cupboards, couldn't hit her head on the coffee table, couldn't wander into that room full of broken glass and rusty nails that my caution seems to suggest we have. A couple nights ago, that all changed.


It was innocent enough. Heidi and I had been talking about how, now that Elaina was walking pretty well, she was going to get bored with "The Corral". We'd need to let her out into the rest of the house soon. Well, Heidi was running an errand, and I was home alone with Elaina...one thing lead to another, and the next thing you know, we're climbing stairs—wait...let me back up and slow down a little.

Heidi was about to leave to run an errand. Elaina and I were just getting back from getting her jammies on, and I didn't want her upset about Mommy leaving, so I thought, "Why don't I just put her down outside the corral? That should distract her long enough for Heidi to leave."

Interesting thing about little girls who've just learned to walk and who find themselves in a new part of the house: They're more than just distracted.

With a squeal of delight, Elaina proceeded to totter around, inspecting everything in the living room.

"That leather chair sure feels funny. Oh, and it makes an really satisfying smack! when you slap your hand on it. Hmmm...glass tabletop with curls of wrought iron underneath—that's pretty cool. Ooh, and it makes a funny slap-ringing sound when you smack it. Very nice. Why does dad look so uncomfortable? Ooh—are those buttons on that big screen over there? Gee, pottery feels funny—rough, bumpy, kind of cold—who's books are those? I've never seen those before. Where do you suppose all these cords lead?"

That was the living room outside the Corral. Soon, she realized that there as a doorway ("A DOORWAY!") exiting the living room. And at this point, I'm thinking, "Well, I am right here...I suppose there's no reason she can't go into the kitchen, as long as I'm with her." So, we whirled through the kitchen with many a "No, don't touch that", "Okay, that's okay.", "Well, don't eat it.", and so on.

The trip to the kitchen turned into a whirlwind tour of the house, punctuated by little girl squeals of excitement. Kitchen turned to hall, turned to dining room...which ends in stairs—stairs which I was surprised to discover this little girl could climb.

Up, up, and up Elaina went, her daddy right beside her, though completely ignored in the concentration and exertion of a 15-pound one year old hefting herself up stair after stair. At the top of the stairs, Elaina discovered her room, and the guest room, and Mommy and Daddy's room. Though she'd seen all of these many times, never had she seen them under her own power.

Coming down the stairs, Daddy had to help. Here was an opportunity to teach Elaina the wise and prudent art of descending the stairs in a reverse crawl. (This lesson had been suggested by Elaina's Aunt Mary Jean, just days earlier, and Elaina's daddy was quite surprised to be putting this into play so soon.)

As reverse crawlers go, Elaina could use some practice. She seems to prefer going up, and it's difficult to teach someone to reverse-crawl down while they're inclined to go up. In the end, I think she got the idea, yet found the point of the lesson bewildering:

"Okay, sure, I could do it that way, but that takes me in entirely the opposite of the direction I want to go, so why would I ever bother to learn that?

It was roughly 50 minutes between the time that I decided, "Maybe I'll just put Elaina down outside the corral" and the time she first paused. In that 50 minutes, I'm reasonably certain Elaina touched every object in the house I'd ever conceivably allow her to touch, and attempted more than a few others. She fell down maybe five or six times during the whole adventure. I've never seen her walk so well...or so quickly. Mostly, she was content to be redirected when she went after something she shouldn't ("When everything is new, why quibble over a few forbidden things?"). The cat dish, for some reason, held her attention, though, and since she simply had to touch the kitties' food, she and I used this as an opportunity for a lesson in washing hands at the sink—something she's watched with fascination, but not participated in. It's apparently a lot cooler than washcloths and wipes and baths.


Finally, we wound up back in the living room. The gate to the corral was open, and for the first time, Elaina walked into the corral on her own two feet. She walked in, surveyed the place with a new, more worldly eye. She looked at her books, at her toys. She walked over to the Pooh Bear that lights up and plays soothing melodies when you push his tummy. She stood over Pooh, looking down at him, lying there next to her little, pink pajama'd foot. Her expression was thoughtful. She'd been Outside. She'd conquered the stairs. She'd seen The World. She wasn't the little girl who'd left the Corral; she was something else now: an explorer, a traveler, a bold adventurer. Things would never be the same. And then, she grabbed her ducky, put her fingers in her mouth, and lay down to rest.