ZGirl fell down the stairs at my SIL’s house this weekend. In a moment of brilliant parenting, I let her toddle off to the living room while I sat in the kitchen. Of course I knew there were stairs, but didn’t think about it. I’m only guessing what happened since my nose was buried in a wine glass, but it would seem she decided to follow one of the older toddlers up the stairs. It wasn’t until I heard a bumpity-bump-WHUMP, followed by high-pitched screaming did I come running.
I found her on the third step from the bottom, in an open-mouthed-carp-out-of-water launch for the next unholy screech that was delivered in full red-zone audio directly into my ear canal as I snatched her up into my arms. The steamroller finally stopped backing over the cat, which was stuffed in a waterlogged set of bagpipes no less than 10 minutes later.
XBoy, who was sitting on the floor playing, said she fell all the way down from the top. I almost ripped him a new one since obviously he witnessed not only the fall but the ascent to where he knew she shouldn’t be, but hello? I’m the mom. I was the one who failed Parenting 101.
She’s fine but for the rug burn on top of her head.
I’ve been mentally flogging myself with a crap-filled diaper that’s been left in the 100 degree heat and humidity since then, all the while with each sloggy thump, I’m chanting, “stupid!, stupid!, stupid!”.