Number Two sat by himself for the first time today. I use the term "himself" loosely. There was a half minute of preparation during which I batted him back and forth between my two hands in an effort to find balance never before employed. Eventually he stayed where I left him. He bobbed neither right, left or face-first. I laid him back on the ground and ran for the video camera after waiting a few seconds to make sure it wasn't a fluke.
Once back in place with the camera at hand, I worked the weeble for a few seconds until he was again upright (that could be a good euphemism if I wasn't talking about MY SON, you perverts!). Each time I went to bring the camera to my eye, he'd begin to loll. It took a few tries to get all processes in line. I pressed Record.
He sat there looking cute. I began to narrate. "He's sitting! For the first time ever!" Then, as quickly as it had materialized, my pride was squashed by my need to contextualize his accomplishment. "At a few days shy of 7 months old, I guess he's not the most advanced kid on the playground..."
Number Two must have been offended by my deprecating diatribe, because he chose just that second to topple backward. He landed with a head-clunk against the file cabinet. Oops. He began to wail. I pressed Stop. "Shhhh," I sang sheepishly, scooping him up and cuddling him against me. "Shhh." I guess I should've placed him a little further away from the solid objects.
It occurred to me then that certain facets of his advancement, or lack thereof, were in my hands, and this kind of head trauma was unlikely to further the cause. It also did not escape my notice that I'd just given myself another example of my stunted growth as a parent.
Sometimes I get so caught up in the race for my child to be the smartest, the quickest, the best, that I forget where he's coming from. I mean, with a mom like me, he's got to be at a decided disadvantage.
I'm something of a late bloomer myself.