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An old college friend, visiting the other weekend, mentioned that he'd recently learned to play squash, and was having a blast at it. "How often at our age," he asked, "do we get better at something?"

Too true! And could anything bring this home in a more humbling way than having a 15-month-old daughter? Every day, it seems, a toddler can do something new. Larkin is constantly learning things, perfecting fledgling aptitudes and adding to her picture of the world. It is relentless and awe-inspiring.

I remember the bit of advice we got most frequently when she was born: "Enjoy it," friends said, "it goes so quickly!" Truth is, things don't really go all that quickly with a newborn, because a newborn isn't changing that fast. But at around 10 months or so, babies hit the developmental accelerator and vroom, they're off. That's when it all begins to blur by. Hold on! you think. I just got used to the person you were yesterday!

You want to grab time and stop it.

You can't stop time, of course. But maybe you can slow it down a little, by paying close attention to exactly where your child is today. So here is a snapshot of Larkin at 15 months, and what she can do:

She waves goodbye. She growls in glee, a rasping Arrrrrhhhh! uttered through a gaping smile. She points to pictures of turtles and says "Durdoo." (She points to pictures of dogs and says "Durdoo.") She plays hide and seek -- well, seek. She doesn't hide yet.

She can also:

Climb up the stairs -- but not down.

Say "Uff-Uff-Uff!" whenever she sees a dog.

Pull up her shirt when you ask, "Where's your belly?" and place both hands around her impressively large stomach while smiling proudly.

Open up a cell phone, press the buttons, hold it to the side of her head, and shout "Ya-waaoh!"

Fetch the appropriate object when you say "Larkin, would you please bring me that book/ shoe/ pine cone / newspaper?"

Accurately point to which of the three fabric nestling cups you have put little pink "Mousie" under, even after you shuffle them around, three-card-monty style.

Put a Cheerio in her mouth, then stick her tongue out with the Cheerio still on it while doing the Growl of Glee.

Remove a plastic organizer bin from the wooden rack in her room, place it over her head, wait for you to ask "Where's Larkin?" -- then pull it off her head and laugh hysterically.

Repeat the above 20 times in a row, until you are exhausted and mildly deranged.

Point again and again at objects of fascination around the house, like the carved wooden eagle hanging on the landing wall, while pronouncing "Ya bliggi wa lobbo bobbidy ya mayo!"

Take the miniature basketball, toddle down the hallway to the 30-inch high basket, hoist the ball over the rim and slam dunk it.

Climb up on the glass-topped coffee table and smear her fingerprints on it.

Take a paper towel and assiduously wipe down the glass-topped table she has just smeared.

Tear the paper towel very carefully into tiny strips, then hoard the strips close to her chest, wander around the room, and return to clean the glass-topped table again, wielding the handful of strips like an impromptu dust rag.

Ransack an entire shelf of books in less than a minute, dumping them to the floor like a thief looking for hidden jewels.

Retrieve Eric Carle's Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? from the pile when you call out its title, then bring the book to you and sit in your lap while you read it.

Stand behind the wooden cradle in the living room and rock it furiously until it whomps loudly against the floor and threatens to tip over.

Go merrily wading through Bert the bulldog's water dish in the kitchen.

Sidle over to the standing floor lamp we have not figured out how to childproof, loiter there until we say "No, Larkin," then proceed to shake and tip it while grinning in mischievous transgression.

Smile her drop-dead-cute smile all morning, until Dad finally gets the camera -- then shift instantly into sulk-and-pout mode.

Time her poop for precisely three minutes after Dad has changed her pee-diaper.

Hurl a book/toy/sippy cup down the stairs and, as it goes, utter a worried and regretful "Uh-oh!"

Pull the plug on her little plastic bathtub-within-the-bathtub, and do it again and again, no matter how often you plug it back in, and no matter how often you demonstrate that unplugging it leads directly to the unsatisfying result of an empty tub.

Dance to the Saturday morning radio polka program, with a herky-jerky, shoulder-shrugging dance style resembling Elaine's egregious performance on Seinfeld.

Reach up to the stereo console and turn the big volume knob WAY UP!!! when her polka music comes on, then WAY UP AGAIN!! when we turn it down, then shriek WAAAHHHH! in outrage when we intercept her on the way to do it a third time.

Resist every overture on the part of a lovesick parent, squirming away from you, pushing herself out of your grasp, frowning at your kiss -- only to turn at an unexpected moment and come rushing at you, lunging into your arms and nuzzling her face into yours, thereby administering to you (just when you thought you wouldn't get it!) the daily dose of euphoria that, if Pfizer or Merck could synthesize and market it globally, would end all world conflict.

All that, and much more, too. When you gaze into the swift-running stream of your toddler's development, so much of what you see is marvelous and mysterious -- and especially, perhaps, in this last moment before the arrival of language. What does Larkin see? What does it all mean to her? Why those tiny strips of paper towel, for instance, that she so carefully assembles and holds so close to her chest. What is she thinking?

The mystery of toddler consciousness -- it's a topic for a novel, or at least another column. But first I think I'll go learn squash, or Spanish, or scrimshaw. Anything to keep up with that little girl.