"Look, Homer! Lisa's taking her first steps!" "You taping it?" "Yes." "I'll watch it later."

The boys are starting to walk.

This is a huge milestone. Once they get this walking thing down, I won’t have to carry them everywhere. Instead I can let them walk by my side, herding three children with two hands and making threatening comments to the loose child after running out of appendages with which to grab.

The boys aren’t really walking yet; they’re just starting to. Ian is closest to walking. He’ll stand while holding onto the couch, and stare at the Tasteeos in the tray of his activity table. I can see the hamster furiously turning the wheel in his head as he debates the merits of the various locomotions. He knows that dropping to all fours, crawling to the table, and rising back to his feet for Tasteeos is model of inefficiency far beyond anything existing in the federal government. So he releases his hand, and takes a step toward the Tasteeos. He steadies himself and takes another step. The hamster starts turning the wheel of self-congratulation since he found a more efficient way to move from the couch, where the pets often hide, to the activity tray, where Tasteeos are always present or at least a simple scream away. Eventually he always falls well short of his goal, quickly forgets all the work the hamster accomplished, and scampers to the Tasteeo tray before Tory scarfs scarf them all.

I think Ian’s record is six steps without falling. Tory is a little behind his brother. I think his record is two steps without falling, though to be fair he has a lot more mass to move. It can’t be easy keeping your balance with a milk-gut bulging your onesie way out in front of you.

Notice I used the words “I think” to describe their records. I can’t be certain of their stepping prowess, and not just because the sleep deprivation has numbed my powers of observation. I’m not sure how far they can walk because I don’t pay that much attention to them.

With Abbie we celebrated every achievement. “Oh look, Abbie can take two steps.” “Oh look, Abbie can move fast enough to catch the dog.” “Oh look, Abbie can climb high enough to put chinchilla food in her mouth.” That’s the joy of parenting one child; I can celebrate every micro-milestone. I’d even spend half the day holding her up by the hands to encourage her to walk sooner. As a result, she could walk fairly well by her first birthday, much better than the boys can at the same age. Not that I would ever compare my children unless I had something very important to guilt them into doing.

With the boys, I have too much to do. If I spent more than a couple minutes walking with one of them, the other would crumple into a wailing ball of ignored agony while Abbie would discover the latest place we hid the chinchilla food. Plus I have other things to do around the house, like clean dishes for a family of five, wash laundry for a family of five, and clean a bathroom for a family of five that gets amazingly filthy considering three of the family members don’t use the toilet yet.

So my back is turned on the boys for much of the day. They may be walking all over the house and I don’t know it, returning to their infantile stance on the floor when I pay attention like farm animals from a Far Side comic. When they start walking full-time, I’ll be ready for them. I already have the chinchilla food in a high location to keep it from Abbie.