Now that Bean is walking more steadily, I took him for his first walk around our SF neighborhood, Glen Park. On my own or with him in the stroller, we rush past the world, but holding his hand as he walked, I slowed down to his pace and the world opened up under his curious gaze.

He climbed his first hill – a San Francisco rite of passage. He tapped on store windows and the people inside waved back, smiling. He picked up dirt and leaves and I refrained from cringing at the thought of germs.

He also had his first close encounter with a dog, and seemed astonished at the soft and warm reality that had leaped off the pages of his Brown Bear book and onto the sidewalk to lick him. Watching him touch every pole, sign, and wall on the way, I smiled, thinking how alike dogs and children can be, swallowing the world whole with their tongue, nose, and hands.

I take him to Yerba Buena playground daily, where shallow waterways are meant for little hands and feet to play in next to birds bathing and drinking, and the recycled playground turf is soft under wobbly little legs. The first day we went, he stood staring down at the waterway while I tugged at his hand wanting to take him to the slide.

It struck me that my enthusiasm to share an experience with him was preventing him from having an experience of his own. So I stopped tugging to let him decide what he wanted to do. Bean is a cautious, deliberate baby. He takes his time in reaching milestones, warming up to people, and exploring new terrain. As an introvert myself, I understand him, but in a society that worships extroverts, I sometimes worry.

He was a little afraid of the water, so took his time contemplating the beckoning rivulet before gravely putting one hand in. Within minutes, he was gleefully splashing both hands and wanting to climb in fully clothed. He played for 15 or 20 minutes before toddling off to the sand table, which he approached with the same serious expression as before.

After a couple of minutes observing, he picked up a plastic sieve and began putting a few grains of sand in and watching them fall through. As time slowed down & expanded, details emerged. I could feel the warm sun on my head, the breeze tickling the trees in front of me, and the soft sound of sand clumps falling onto the metal table.

We sat for a long time. The sand table was a zen garden raked by baby hands into zigzags and circles of perfection, demanding that I slow down, be present, and pay attention.

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