My son has recently discovered that, despite the fact that he has not yet mastered crawling, he can manuever by rolling and spinning on our hardwood floor. This, while a great source of motherly pride at his obvious level of genius, is also a great source of worry and annoyance. It used to be that I could put him down on his blanket on the floor while he kicked and bubbled, and I made breakfast, or emptied the dishwasher. Now, however, if I were to do that, I would find him on the verge of manuevering himself under the couch. Even though I watch him like a hawk, the speed at which he can get into things and wriggle his way around is truly terrifying. I took a bite of my sandwich at lunch the other day, and in the time that it took me to finish it, he had managed to grab one of my books off the coffee table shelf, and rip off a piece of the cover, which he then tried to shove in his mouth as I reached over to take it from him. For someone who is not quite six months old, he definitely has a very strong sense of what he should not be doing. I love my son, strongly, desperately, in the constant knowledge that I do not deserve something so beautiful and good; in the constant fear that I will not be able to keep him safe forever. And his adventuresome disposition from such an early age seems to confirm my every fear - he will find the highest branches, the steepest hills, the deepest waters, and I will watch, praying and biting my nails, ready to be his safety net if he needs me, and knowing that he probably won't.