I should consider myself lucky that since Rylie was born she never cared to play on the stairs. We made such a routine of going up and down the stairs at certain times, always holding hands, that it never even occurred to her that they would be used otherwise. At least not until recently.
“Mom, I don’t need you anymore. I’m a big girl now.”
OUCH
Now I stand at the top of the stairs, waiting for her to hit the bottom and hoping it’s not with her face. I hold my breath, my heart races and terrible images flash before my eyes.
She’s not the most graceful of children. I’ve seen her run into doors and walk straight into walls.
She’s the kid who stands in front of the swing set, gets kicked in the head. Falls down, stands up, gets kicked again.
I tell her repeatedly not to walk on the freshly mopped floor. I suppose I didn’t specify, which explains why rather than walk, she runs across it, always ending up a sobbing mess. Thank goodness for band aids and Elmo ice packs.
She’s fallen on her face more times than I can count on my hands, always resulting in a lump and bruise on the left side of her head. I convince myself she gravitates toward this side because her brain is so big on the left, making her a left-sided math wiz like her dad.
Growing up is so hard… on me, not her. Today she wanted to “show her friends her room.” Should we start looking at colleges?
