Gertrude’s on the cusp of crawling. She’ll get up on all fours, rock back and forth until one of her limbs is compelled to move. She’ll thrust and arm forward and . . . fall flat on her face.

Watching a child gain mobility is an odd experience. When she was a newborn, I’d watch her as she began to notice that things like hands and feet were actually attached. It was like watching Jell-O learn to jiggle itself. Well, that Jell-O can move around a room now. It’s fast, it’s unpredictable and it’s dangerous. It’s the Blob.

I imagine being a baby must become extremely frustrating at times. We often look at a child and think, “Oh, if it were only that simple again.”

Simple? This kid is stuck on the floor and she sees a toy a mere four feet away. This pisses her off. She wants that toy. She wants it bad. But she can’t get it. She can’t!

So, she hops up on all fours and start to rock. You can almost hear Mission Control ticking off it’s checklist.

“Baby’s body, this is the Cortex. Are we go or no go for launch? Left leg?”

“Go brain!”

“Right leg?”

“Go brain!”

“Left arm?”

“Go!”

“Right arm?”

“We’re go brain!”

“Tummy padding?”

“Go!”

“Face braking?”

“Reluctantly go brain.”

The countdown begins. Rocking faster now. She’s ready for launch. This isn’t a test; she’s really going to do it. 5. Arms twitching. 4. The legs are beginning to shuffle. 3. The toes are wiggling. 2. Look of stern determination. 1. Launch.

The entire body lunges forward. The arms know what to do, but the legs are pushing off with too much uncontrolled power. Abort! Abort! Ready the face brake!

And she slides on her face. But she won’t give up. She’ll try one or two more times. Either each lunge will get her close enough that eventually she’ll be able to reach it, or she’ll investigate alternate routes.

She has two alternate forms of mobility. The first is to roll in a great circle until she eventually reaches the toy. This takes a long time. The other is to plant her face on the floor, arching her butt straight up in the air and, using her forehead as a fulcrum, rotating her body into position and then backing in.

I encourage her mobility. I look forward to it. I sit on the sidelines rooting for her to go, as if she’s in the pole position for the Baby 500.

She’s going to get it soon. Perhaps within the next few days. And when she does, I’ll cheer. I’ll pick her up, hug her, kiss her and make her do it again.

Then I’ll show my friends. The neighbors. And strangers.

And Gertrude’s confidence will be sapped. She’ll wonder if she’s nothing more than a novelty. She’ll begin to wonder if there’s more to life than crawling. She’ll look around her and notice that, minus her arch-nemesis The Cat, everyone is a biped.

Walking!

And then we’re all screwed . . .