We’re watching her struggle on the floor, my sister and I. Her brain is wrestling with instinct, something in her almost-four-month-old self is convinced that there is more to life than lying on her back watching the world pass by, high above, and certainly more to it than living belly and face down (tummy time, oh horror of horrors!). She has mastered a mixture of strength and momentum, using feet swung into the air and a twist of shoulders to roll from back to side and she performs this trick again and again.
But she wants to go further. She grasps her clothing, the blanket she’s lying on, in her perseverance and struggle to go further. She cries with frustration before pausing to suck her fingers to soothe her anxiety and angst. And then she tries again, little knees and feet swinging over, arms and hands grasping, even using the weight of her head to reach further.
She was a tired little bean that evening after all that work. Maybe she’ll make it all the way another day.
The funny thing to realize is that I’m so terribly proud of her for just trying so hard. I’m not worried about whether she’ll roll over tomorrow or next week or even by her next checkup. I’m confidant she will figure it out soon. In the meantime, I am inexplicably delighted by her efforts and perseverance. There’s a good lesson to be learned in that.