Tonight is the night least likely to produce profound thoughts. I've imbibed a fair amount of whiskey, as part of my effort to recover from hosting, this afternoon, a birthday party for four boys turning one year old. These boys are all in my group of older mothers and their babies; it's just luck that four out of seven of the babies are turning one year old at around the same time.
We had a raucous good time; it's fascinating to see how each of these little ones are developing--each, reaching milestones, but not the same ones. One of them, the youngest by a few weeks, is already walking; two of them point at objects that interest them, or things that they want; one of them signs up a storm, to his mother's delight; a couple are using spoons or forks; one or two are saying "hello" and other words. Later this evening, after all the guests had departed, my son stood on the couch and held his balance for about seven seconds, then did it again on the floor.
12 to 18 months is a kind of golden age, I've been told; then the temper tantrums and repeated no's and other problems begin. I'm sure challenges will appear, some that I could not have predicted no matter what. I'm sure I'll face many grim or desperate moments over the next twelve months. What I can say, however, is that when he reaches two years of age, if I'm even half as happy as I am now, it will have been a wonderful year.
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