I didn't walk when the calendar said I should walk.
Other children my age, and younger, were doing the stumble-step baby thing garnering oohs and aahs, cheers and applause. Not me. Mothers were comparing their offspring's talented developments with pride, and not a little bit of competition. Not mine.
My mother took me to our doctor, certain he would discover something horribly wrong with me. After all, not only was I not walking, I hadn't crawled like other children. Apparently I had this crablike move that managed to get me from Point A to Point B quite nice, thank you very much.
Assured that she had a healthy child, my mom braved out my lack of progress the best she could. I sort of think she minimized her embarrassment by keeping me home alone most of the time, which may explain why I never became a social butterfly.
One day, I got up on my feet and decided to walk. That very same day, I ran. Even though I'm sure the relief she felt about the fact that she wouldn't have a seven year-old who maneuvered around on all fours while moving backward and looking at the ceiling was profound, I'm sure she had days when she wished I couldn't get in to as much trouble.
Earlier this month, I turned 57. (Had to do the math to come up with that one.) I'm hoping to have my first manuscript published in early April for my mom's birthday. She's not with us physically any longer, but she still inspires. And I'm pretty sure I'll hear a few oohs and aahs, cheers and applause from her direction.
We all get there in just the right time, I'm convinced.