Conquering the stair case

“Oh, he is so cute, Kiss. Kiss. Kiss,” my daughter-in-love acted out her words kissing my son’s baby picture. Sometimes I am convinced the only reason she married him as for his cute baby pictures and for the stories I tell her about his childhood.
Recently we talked about his headlong rush into life, especially when he’s on a bike: He had gotten a traffic ticket for not obeying the traffic laws while riding his bike.
“He’s been like that since he was the cute little baby. I don’t think he is going to change simply because he married you.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“He has always been nonchalant about safety. Going and doing something is more important.”
For instance, he began crawling when he was five-months-old. He looked like a happy, awkward puppy out exploring the world.
Being able to crawl was enough for his sibling, but not him. He wanted more. Since he was only a few inches from the floor, all he could see were feet, floor and the flight of stairs his older brothers went up each night. He pulled himself up at the bottom step and tried to climb them, but he couldn’t. His legs were too short to reach his knee to the first step.
Since it was so obvious he could not get up those steps, I let him stay there and happily try over and over. Occasionally, while he bounced and jabbered to himself at the bottom step I would run a quick errand upstairs.
Not a good idea. Before his sixth month he conquered that bottom step and was halfway up his personal mountain while I gathered up dirty clothes in the bedrooms. As I started back down the steps, I saw him and froze. I was afraid to show my shock, let alone move, let it startle him out of his concentrated climb.
Putting down the clothes, I smiled and quietly told him to keep coming as I eased down behind him. When I reached him, I placed my hand on his back and gently moved one tiny leg down to the step below. His little toes barely reached the step beneath him before he started sliding down from the higher step. By the time I guided him safely down the steps, he had reached the step beneath him before he started sliding down from the higher step. By the time I guided him safely down the steps, he had figured it out for himself.
I used to watch him go up and down. He would give a tiny little hop, book his knee on each step and pull himself up. Coming down was a controlled slide on his cute little tummy with his toes braking him at each step.
“Ohhh, how cute,” his wife gushed.
“It was. None of the rest tried the stairs until they were taller and at least a year-old. As soon as they tried going up, I began lessons on coming down. And I thought he was pretty special until I gold my 80-year-old neighbor across the street about his climb.
She reminisced, “my son was five-months-old when he figured out how to climb up on top of the dining room table. And now he spends his days roofing houses.”
“Small consolation when your husband is riding his bike after work,” I said. “But at lest he isn’t up on the roof every day.”
“True,” the newest family member sighed. “Now tell me another story about when he was a baby.”