Within the thick file labeled, "Why I am a Bad Mother," there is a sub-folder titled, "Milestones--her selfish refusal to rejoice in some of them."

Baby Diva is starting to walk. Please hold the collective, "Awwww!" because this mother of four is none too pleased.

This particular milestone is not one I look forward to. Oh sure, it's cute for a second as you watch her toddle on curled toes for 3 inches before falling down on her cushioned behind. I do love that look of slobbery joy when she makes the four consecutive steps from the couch to the coffee table in 45 minutes. It really is momentarily adorable.

Until you realize that all four can outrun me now.

All of my children are late walkers. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I push them back down every time they stand up or make the family room rug an obstacle course in which they have to maneuver precariously on their chubby little baby toes, hopefully delaying the process until well into their teens. I stop short of actually tripping them as they walk by--it's the dog, I swear.

I would so rather continue to carry them despite knowing full well what my body looks like constantly toting a 25-pound weight on my side. I have the posture of an arthritic kangaroo. My left hip juts out so sharply you can balance an egg on it during the vernal equinox. It's been used for a chair for toddler behinds so long, I'm thinking of upholstering it with chintz and decorating my spinal cord with matching throw pillows.

It's not that I begrudge her rightful baby freedom--at 13 months she should have a cell phone and a Roth IRA for goodness sake! However, I think she should at least be talking before walking. We should have a rational conversation explaining the finer points of walking upright. She should have a basic understanding of directions and physics--walking through walls is not possible no matter how many times you run into them. She should have the language skills to tell me she's going out to the car to get that sticky lollipop from her car seat before she walks outside to retrieve it.

And she is a girl. As soon as she discovers what those feet she's walking on look like in a pair of cute shoes, life as a carefree, barefoot baby is over. She will begin to walk into childhood wearing a size 1 Prada mid-calf leather boot. She will cram those feet into tight Espadrilles wincing with every breath, but continue nonetheless because it pushes her height over the 2-foot mark. We will collectively spend more time, money and energy on her footwear than her college applications.

But in that Bad Mother file, you might find the biggest indictment. It's right there next to my unilateral boycott of all water parks and the fact sheet for exactly how many miles it was to school and the real age at which I saw my first R-rated movie. It's the transcript of my mind when thoughts like this run across it: Maybe Chinese foot binding was not, in fact, such a barbaric practice.

Because in the archives of Bad Mother Files from the beginning of time --written on papyrus and rice paper scrolls--maybe we realize that they just grow up too fast. That walking without our help means they can walk without our help. That the day they take those first steps is the last day they reach up to be carried. And soon when they extend that little hand it's not to be held, but to get the car keys or hail the rickshaw.

When they grow up and leave the nest, they don't fly; they merely walk away.

As a mother, that is a very bittersweet road to walk, uphill the rest of the way.

©2008 Tracey Henry

Divamail me! Divamail@SuburbanDiva.com.