Go, Baby, Go

She runs.
She prances.
She hops.
She flits.
She tiptoes.
She twirls.
She jumps.
She skips.
She bear crawls.
She butter-flies.
She donkey-kicks.

But she does not walk.
(And rarely sits.)

Abby smiles and careens and laughs and falls with a heart that's light and bright and full.  And while we catch our breath and shake our heads and occasionally pull our hair, we acknowledge that she was designed to move, to do, to go places.  So we bite our tongues as much as we can and pray that she reaches the finish line in one piece.

Go, Baby, Go.