Royalty

I watch my daughter, nearly eleven months old, struggle to crawl. She is on the floor between wonderful old German toys, the kind of toys that make adults weep for an idyllic past but, if memory serves me, puzzle children. Why these antiquities when there are wonderful, colorful things advertised on television?

In any case, my daughter is too young to be seduced by the boob tube. For her, nothing is antiquated. Everything is something new, to be held, examined, touched, tasted. In particular, any mirror is absolutely enthralling. Magically smooth and cold, sometimes containing images of a smiling waiving Papa, Mama, Oma or Opa, always containing that beautiful, baby girl with deep brown eyes who smiles back and imitates her every movement. Such wonder is just worth a rigorous crawl across the rug in the living room. It's not easy, almost unnatural, requiring plenty of grunts and coos along the way, but she makes progress, just learning to crawl on those soft little arms.

Sometimes she stops. She sits up, which always brings her a foot or two back, and sucks her thumb with a frowned expression. Sometimes the expression is, "Keep going, you can do it." Sometimes it is, "well, good try, ol' sport, but enough of that." I can never tell until she either continues her quest, or, thumb still in her mouth, she fixes her attention on an object within her grasping range. Or, she looks at me, waives her arms and with a part-cry, part-squeal, demands to be picked up. There are, after all, quicker ways from point A to point B.

In all this, I reflect that I am royalty. With all my problems, with the weight of life, responsibility, future, money, relationship and other uncertain necessities, I ask myself, what a kingly privilege to be the father of a near-eleven month old girl, who crawls, babbles and explores between wonderful old German toys. What have I conquered, in what great city have I celebrated my triumph, with parades of chariots and golden scepters, to have deserved such a prize?