On that day, he will leave behind a whole season of babyhood -- roughly a year -- of what, at the time, seemed like a lifetime of nursing sessions, night wakings, swaddling, diaper-changing, spit-up swiping and lullabying.
I love Henry at age 1. His world is bigger and more impressive to him. It's exciting.
I'm a little sad, too.
When Henry walks, that long, hard year of babyhood will be reduced to a handful of sporadic blog entries, notes in his baby journal, a thousand digital images and the shared memories of his Papa, siblings and I.
Right now I am desperate to soak up what Henry is like as he quite literally teeters on the brink of toddlerhood.
How he finds himself in precarious positions -- not knowing how he got there -- then calling for help to get him back to his safe place on the floor.
How content he is to sit and be still, examining toys and babbling about them.
Eating finger food and using his hands and grunts to ask for more. Being content to do so as long as the food keeps on coming. Smiling at the giver.
And the crawling. I'll miss the crawling.
The worn and dirtied knees on his pint-sized pants.
The way he looks back at me after every 10-or-so shuffles to see if I've still got my watchful eye on him. I always do.
I'm sure he'll still do this once he walks. He'll need my reassurance even more as his legs take him to greater heights and unfamiliar places.
But he'll become faster, increasingly curious and ever more confident.
I'll still be right behind him for as long as he needs me. I've got no place else I need to be.
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