When my son turned 1, friends bought me books on parenting toddlers.

"Turning 1 means the ONEderful days are over," my friend said. "Soon as he toddles, he's a toddler."

I scoffed. How could my precious baby be associated with the sheer terror associated with the nefarious T-word? How could my angel be corralled into a group so vile, so heinous, it makes grown men weep and women cross their legs, swearing they'll have the one child and the one child only. Not my little man. Not him. Not yet. It was too soon. Fingers crossed, toddlerhood was eons away.

The parenting book insisted otherwise, stating that days of archetypal toddlerhood were closer than I thought, asserting that those dreaded evil years were just a few months away. Stephen King could learn a thing or two about writing horror from parenting books.

Looking at my sweet angel, covered in blue icing from his chocolate birthday cake, I questioned the likelihood of his harboring some inner gremlin. He had been chill since the day he was born. His sweet disposition set. His go-with-the-flow character established. Perhaps the onset of toddling brought out the jagged-toothed monster in some children, but not in mine. My son, I decided, was predisposed for awesomeness.

Then the collapsing began.

Seemingly overnight, my son decided that life is awfully dramatic. Too dramatic for rational thought. So dramatic, in fact, that he couldn't take it standing up. Like Scarlett O'Hara, he thought that bad news was best dealt with by faux fainting. He would collapse on the floor, literally at the drop of a hat; one time, we were playing peekaboo by covering my son's eyes with an oversize adult cap, and when the hat dropped from his head and hit the floor, my son hit the floor beside it.

I tried to rationalize it away. This simply meant my child has a sympathetic heart. He didn't want that poor cap to be on the floor all alone. He was simply providing company! This in no way signified pending toddlerdom. After all, toddlers are known for full tantrums — kicking and screaming on the floor. When my son hit the ground, he always remained silent.

Then the crying began.

The tears didn't accompany the dramatic collapses; they came on their own, fast and frequent. If my son let go of a balloon and it floated to the ceiling, he would be in hysterics. It didn't matter that I handed it back to him within seconds. If he eagerly nodded when I offered him a drink, his excitement would instantly melt to tears in the minute it took me to pour milk into his sippy cup. Oh, the tragedy of it all!

As a mother, I try to empathize with my son's emotions. And sometimes, I really think I get where he's coming from. A balloon floating from your grasp teaches a difficult life lesson in how transitory life is. We are all nomadic balloons, forced to travel through this world alone, without someone to guide our string — or something like that. And having to wait for your sippy cup is equally tragic because, um, well, because milk is delicious. And it comes from cows. And who doesn't like cows? Am I right?

The months toddled on, but my justifications for my baby's cries and collapses held strong. My son was not becoming a toddler. The proof was in the fact that he had yet to have a tantrum, having never combined tears with the flailing fits. His floor fits remained silent, and his tears came while he stood stoically still.

"Perhaps this will be as bad as it gets," I told myself.

If I'm being completely honest, I secretly hoped my son's behavioral development would be slightly stunted — at least when it came to tantrums. Nothing too drastic, just by a few years or so. All I'm saying is that if he didn't begin acting like a toddler until he left for college, would it really be so bad? His fraternity brothers could easily excuse his full-blown tantrums on his latest keg-athon, and I would have my sweet angel for the duration of his time at home.

I hoped and prayed. In vain.

As we were leaving the house this morning, my son's sneaker fell off. He hit the ground flailing. And crying. Together.

Have mercy. Toddlerhood has arrived.

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