Last year I wrote a column about taking long walks with my daughter. Walking was the only thing that eased the pain of Addison's teething, so several times a day at the first sign of a tender, swollen gum, I plopped my girl in the Snugli and we hit the streets. Over several months we logged countless miles, made new friends, and I dropped a staggering amount of weight.
The Snugli now hangs in the hall closet, a fond reminder of the not so distant past when Addison contentedly rode around strapped to my chest, a baby on the precipice of walking. Nearly a year later, she is now an active and mobile toddler, and the dynamics of our walks have done a 180.
Taking a walk with my daughter is now an exercise in patience, for the pace at which we move is inevitably slow and always unpredictable. For Addison, each walk is an expedition. Hand in hand, we exit our house and step into the sunshine with every intention of making it to the park, a lofty goal that often is never achieved.
My daughter is now the leader, and the itinerary she sets for our jaunts is as follows: Exit house, take three steps and squat down on the sidewalk to poke a bug. Take five steps, turn abruptly around and run back to our house. Run wildly towards the park. Repeat entire process. Frequent breaks and sudden bursts of activity define our journeys. Marveling at anthills and yard gnomes, we meander our way throughout the neighborhood, leaving no rock, blade of grass or crushed can unexplored. At 20 months old, Addison is a Zen master, exhibiting a remarkable ability to find beauty in the mundane, exhilaration in all things simple.
It's not all flower contemplation and yoga breathing, however. Now that we are both pedestrians, my girl and I often find ourselves smack in the middle of some pretty dramatic situations. During an eventful sojourn last weekend, we came across no less than four dogs, two of them menacing, one without a leash. We beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the street.
Not five minutes later we rounded a corner and ran smack into a pack of surly geese, scaring the wits out of me and prompting belly laughs from Addison, delighted at the sight of her frantic, screaming mother. As if that were not excitement enough for one day, our walk ended with the climactic arrest of a Papa John's delivery man, a scant few yards from our front door.
Yes, much has changed in the year since Addison and I began our daily walks. And just as I predicted in my earlier column, it all happened in the blink of an eye.
The infant I nestled against my chest is now the tiny powerhouse who walks alongside me, conversing fluidly, confident and independent.
Mercifully, though, some things remain the same.
My daughter's soft pink hand still grips mine as we traverse our little community; she gives me a little squeeze now and then, a live and wriggly affirmation of our connection. Also unchanging is the sweetness of Addison's warm breath against my cheek in the rare moments when her legs tire and she asks me to carry her.
The lightning quick pace of my daughter's evolution from baby into little girl often leaves me short of breath. The daily constant of our nature constitutionals helps me to put everything into context.
Gone are the days of tranquil, uninterrupted, fat burning walks. Everything is fluid, nothing remains the same for long, except that which is most important. Ever good for the soul, our walks are hands-on learning tools, valuable studies in divinity.
However slow or erratic, I look forward to pulling on my walking shoes and heading out the front door with Addison, even if we barely make it to the mailbox.
Judy Caldwell-Midero lives in Jamestown with her husband, daughter and kitty. She enjoys reading, writing and a good cup of coffee. Contact her at judycaldwellmidero@gmail.com.
