Being a grandpa to a granddaughter who’s still measured in months is not a role for anyone who enjoys a slow pace. Ellie is almost nine months old, and she’s developing so fast that last month’s toys are basically wall décor. Her mind is making these huge leaps, and the adults in the house are scrambling to keep everything one step safer than it was yesterday. We never know when the next mental or physical jump is coming, only that it’s coming sooner than we think.

Right in the middle of our living/playroom sits a table that has become Ellie’s personal stage. It’s the perfect height for a pre‑walker with ambition. She’ll grab a hand, a toy, or just her own determination to hoist herself upright. Once she’s standing, her eyes sweep the surface like she’s conducting a security inspection. What can I reach? What belongs to me now? Does that orange thing look like it might taste good?

I used to think she was studying the objects. Now I know she’s studying us. She’s calculating whether she needs to stretch a little farther — and whether we’ll stop her before she claims something she shouldn’t.

For the past few weeks, my wife and I played a ridiculous game of “table shuffle.” Candles, screwdrivers, pens, coasters — anything remotely interesting or dangerous — got nudged from one side of the table to the other depending on where Ellie approached. We convinced ourselves this was a strategy. Really, it was two adults procrastinating while a baby outsmarted us.

Eventually, we surrendered. The table was cleared. A clean slate. A blank canvas for Ellie’s daily experiments. Every morning when she arrives — and I’m with her 25 to 30 hours a week, so I’ve seen this show plenty — we scatter her growing collection of pre‑toddler toys across the surface. Her eyes light up as her fingers make contact with whatever object she has decided she must possess. It’s her stage, and we’re the stage crew.

But the table era won’t last forever. I got a preview of the next chapter the other day. I was helping her walk — hands in mine, feet doing that determined little stomp — when she stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She planted her feet, put her hands on the first step, and looked all the way to the top like she was sizing up a mountain she fully intended to climb.

That’s when I realized it: the Ellie Effect isn’t slowing down. As she gets stronger and braver, the house will get safer for her and a little less convenient for the rest of us. And honestly, that’s fine. She’s not going to savor this moment for long, and neither should I. She’s training for her next adventure. I’m just lucky enough to have a front‑row seat.