I had been saying for weeks it could happen any day now. But it didn’t and it didn’t again, and I suppose, deep inside, I never quite believed it. Seeing it in my mind’s eye was an impossibility. So let’s say, it took me by surprise, though I suppose it shouldn’t have done.

“Little girl, you’re walking,” I exclaimed. “Look at you, you’re walking!” “My oh my, little boy, you’re walking too! You two, you’re so clever. Just look at you, you’re so clever!” My words were gushing, faster and more riotously than an African waterfall.

I slipped backwards across the floor, backing out of the door with my arms outstretched towards them both. Still, they tottered on towards me, one a few feet behind the other, their little feet padding slowly in perfect, uneven baby steps. And what a phrase that is – baby steps – one which I will now forever use with far greater accuracy; something or somebody hesitant, bewildered, shaky, but for all of that utterly compelled by nature to move forwards.

Oh the sweet elation and utter astonishment. Fleeting, wretched thoughts dragged up by sleep deprivation and the occasional, drudging monotony of childcare all forgotten in an instance. The air, their and my faces, overflowed with exceeded expectation. The world, in that moment, was full of promise and possibility: those tiny creatures I cradled in my arms those many months ago, if they can now walk across a room all alone what else can we do? Anything, anything at all.

I clapped my hands, and exclaimed still further. They did too. And then, they simultaneously fell to the floor and collapsed into confused sobs. It is alarming, I suppose, to walk upright and alone with its thousands of possibilities and many miles of potential distance. But I think it was also relief. They had passed the test they set themselves, and now with it behind them the world is theirs to conquer.