If I had ever wondered what it was like to have my heart literally in my throat, I found out yesterday. I’m sure I had felt this feeling before, most notably when Pachey was a wee thing and she flew out of my arms as I tried to balance her on my shoulder and simultaneously cover her back with her blankie. Down, down she went, the only thing keeping her from landing head first onto the floor being her leg wedging itself between the mattress and footboard of our bed. Someone was definitely watching over us that day. But after so much time, one forgets what it feels like to choke on your own beating heart.
Yesterday Claire woke from her nap all too early and was screaming incessantly. Not crying, just screaming. Anyone who has spent any amount of time with her knows what I am talking about. So I went in, gave her a drink of water, since I know her throat had to be raw by now, and after rocking with her for a few minutes, I put her back in her bed to (hopefully) go back to sleep. She didn’t, but I listened as she babbled quietly and happily in her crib.
Then I heard a loud crash, as if she had flung herself over the edge of the crib, bringing the rails down with her. I leaped towards her room as fast as I could, threw open the door, and my eyes went directly to a crumpled heap on the floor. Omigod. No, wait. That’s not a baby. That’s a blanket.
There she was, standing happily in her crib, grinning at me and wondering why I looked so horror stricken. So what in the heck was that loud crash? Apparently when a baby drops a sippy cub and lets it clatter between the wall and the crib, it sounds as if the crib exploded.
Ok, I’m going to go change my pants now.