These are the days

"Oh, isn't she sweet," said the kindly, gray-haired woman behind the counter of the small health food store, "How old is she?"

"She's 16 months," I replied, setting Chicky down on the floor to dig a twenty out of my wallet. Capitalizing on this golden opportunity Chicky decided to pull organic chocolate bars off the low shelves and began handing them to me. Thanks, kid. I get the hint. Mommy needs to have some chocolate and save the rainforest. Mommy's all about good deeds while she's hopped up on sugar.

"Look at how she's walking!" said the grandmotherly-type, clearly forgetting about the teething tablets and bottled water I was purchasing. "Is she talking yet?"

"Just a few words. She gets her point across in other ways." Is my answer as my daughter starts flinging stacks of literature on the local yoga center around the store.

"This is the best age. Enjoy it while it lasts."

As we left with our purchases (finally hurried out because a man with dreads and Birks needed to buy his patchouli) I was struck by her last statement. This is the best age. This is the best age? Sure it's fun to watch my daughter learn and grow everyday, building upon her skills and knowledge of life. Especially the times when she learns that a peak-a-block makes a satisfying crash against my laptop when used as a hammer. Or when eating dinner it's fun to throw the green vegetables to waiting dogs lying below the highchair. I do enjoy watching her run through the house as fast as her little legs will carry her. She runs a few steps and then falls down for no reason, like Agador in "The Birdcage" in the scenes when he's forced to wear shoes, and then gets right back up and continues running only to fall down again. She's tough, my little girl. A few bruises aren't going to stop her from chasing the cat. Yes, this age is fun.

My girlfriend, K., the mother of a precocious two year old, and her sister, mother of two teens and a pre-teen, repeatedly told me in my first few months as a mother that their favorite child age was from three to 9 months. After that, everything goes to shit.

To which I felt like replying "Do you not remember that age? It's all about shit."

But they loved that time in their children's lives. Thoughts of it left them in a rosy haze of soft, sleeping babies, the smell of Dreft and Ivory Snow and sweet infants that they could dress up in any way they chose. I loved that time, too, but I also remember the constant feedings and 3am wake-ups as well as the feel of a downy head against my cheek. Maybe I'm still too close to it to get wrapped up in the romantic memories of infancy. I can remember back to that age and remember a few things fondly. Okay, quite a few things. Was that the best age and I missed something?

The woman in the health food store seemed to remember the age that Chicky is right now as the best. The days when a toddler can walk but language has not yet become a tiresome, insistent, soundtrack played over and over. Chicky still allows me to dress her - okay, some days she refuses to wear shoes but I can feel her on that - and most days has no problem staying in a stroller while I scan the aisles of new books at Barnes and Noble. This is a good age, indeed. But is really the best?

I have yet another friend who was thrilled when her daughter was finally potty trained and somewhat self-sufficient. No more diapers and soon after she could have conversations with her kid. Child-like banter about cows, McDonald's french fries and her friends at preschool, but still it was an exchange of words instead of a one-sided conversation. Any mother of an infant or young toddler knows what I mean when I say one-sided. I have deep, meaningful talks with my kid about politics and Project Runway (or usually just the politics of Project Runway) while she gums the dog's toys. I am looking forward to the day when we can sit down and discuss her hatred for swings together as mother and daughter over a glass of milk and graham crackers.

When Mr. C and I took our first trip to Italy we met a couple in their 50's who were staying at the same inn we were. Over dinner one night shared with three other couples at the inn the husband and wife in their 50's shared stories of their sons moving out of the house. The youngest had just moved out recently and they were toasting to their new freedom. Hurrah! The kids are out of the house! To them, this was the best age. The age when their children were completely self-sufficient, emotionally, physically and monetarily. It's not that they didn't love and enjoy their children but they were done parenting full-time. I'm sure I will enjoy having my life back when my kid is grown, but who's to say it's the best or not?

So, what is the best age? I have to admit that I was a bit disheartened by what the woman at the health store had to say, but after thinking about it I decided to take it with a grain of salt. At sixteen months, Chicky is at a great age. Maybe the best age. But when she's 3 years old and going to preschool and telling me about her day when I pick her up, that will be the best age. And when she's 6 or 7 and she's playing t-ball and she learns to run the bases the correct way or she's picking clover in the outfield, that will be the best age. When she's 15 and hormonal and crying over a boy who doesn't like her, when she finally breaks down and begrudgingly asks for advice then that will be the best age.

And when she's walking down an aisle to receive her diploma or, maybe, to marry the man she loves, that will be the best age.

But for now, I'll enjoy her walking, then falling, then picking herself back up and walking again and consider this the best.