Wednesday, November 6, 2013


We have been trying to introduce the baby sign for "help" so that Vivian can ask for assistance in putting on her shoes, scooping her oatmeal, and what have you. But when I offer "help", she looks at me with a furrowed brow and pouted lip - almost insulted, like how dare I take away her independence. Help is the last thing she wants.

Today we were exploring downtown Roseville (as we often do when we go to work with Corey) when she started pointing and shrieking excitedly towards some cement stairs leading up to a house. It actually was an architect's office. (I only know because Corey networked their computers when they moved in.) "You want to climb up those steps?" Nodding and giggling, she squirmed out of my arms as we approached the stairs.

It was only seven steps high. But then again, she's only about two feet tall. From her view down there, the staircase was a towering feat to conquer. Up she went, no reservations.

Fifteen months old. This seems to be the age of confidence. Everything is tried. Everything is tasted. Everything is new.

I won't hold her back. I won't to tell her that people are staring, that the stairs are filthy, that there's nothing she needs at the top of the stairs. I want her to hold on to her confidence as long she can - forever. Because people will always judge, hands can always be washed, and sometimes you don't need a destination to start moving.

As kids grow up, the water becomes too deep, the stairs become too high, and fear of failure settles in. At what point do kids loose confidence in themselves?

What if they never did?

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