For most of his first year on planet earth, I carried my third child around in a fabric sling that draped across my left shoulder, distributing his weight in a way that made it safe for me to dash across the playground and catch his five-year-old brother dangling from the horizontal bars or his three-year-old sister rocketing down the slide. Often, I faced him forward so he could capture the day in a cinematic way: slow pan left, open the refrigerator; close-up on the dog; dolly zoom to front door; shaky handheld shots of the day’s mail.
The most judgmental of my suburbanite neighbors would wag their heads, remarking snarkily, “Are you ever going to let him walk?
“I don’t know,” I would chirp. “Maybe someday.”