Max's early childhood was full of question marks for me: Would he walk? Talk? Learn to eat and drink on his own? Learn to pick up toys on his own? Learn the ABC's and numbers? I ached to know what he would be able to do.
I wanted that crystal ball. I took Max to specialist after specialist, looking for answers that they couldn't give. Because no doctor, no matter how remarkable, can foresee the future of a baby with brain damage.
I had one of those "If only the me of 14 years ago could have seen this back then" moments in the kitchen last night as Max stood in front of Ben, who was doing that toddler waddle.
Seeing Ben learning to walk is a thrill in its own right (it is for Max, too, if you couldn't already tell by his squeal). I adore watching the baby do that drunk Frankenstein gait, control his balance, plop down, get right back up again and grow more and more confident. I love watching Sabrina and Max encourage him.
But there's an extra layer of joy, and that is watching my big boy—the one I wasn't sure would walk—cheer his toddling brother on.