This is the week you fell off of the bed, O.
Ever since starting to crawl, well, “crawl” you’re biggest motivator has been one of these silly black cats. So much so that when I would place you on our bed so that I could grab a pair of socks or put on pants, you’d be to the other side with a fist full of fur in 5 seconds. I began placing you on the edge of the bed (your Dad’s side) since there always seemed to be un gatito on/around my pillow (a love for smelly hair products? who knows). Without hesitation, you were off and I would meet you just in time on the other side.
Until this week. Last Friday, I placed you on the bed (on your Dad’s side) so you could crawl across to a skeptical cat and I decided on my trek to the other side I would flatten the sheets around you (you’ve recently deciding grabbing them and shoving them in your mouth was a good idea since I won’t let you death grip the cats for fear you’ll lose an eye). I must have completely forgotten what my day job is and took 3 steps away from your perch on the bed. When I snapped out of my daze of lump free sheets, I looked up. You were looking straight back at me, small smile on your face, from the spot I had put you down. It seems my straightening mesmerized you, too! Then at the same time I realized you were way waywaywaywaywayway too close to the edge of the bed, you lifted your left leg and swung it behind and across your little body.
You do that move all of the time. You usually have solid ground underneath you when you set out to flipping over. This time. Ugh, this one stupid time. Your butt landed on the edge of the bed and the weight of your adorable little legs slid you straight and swiftly down the height of our bed.
Those were the longest 3 steps of my life.
Everything seemed to happen so fast but move in slow motion. When I came around the corner of the bed, you were on your belly, holding your head up from the ground. I don’t remember hearing a thud or crash. From my vantage point, you appeared to “worm” onto the floor just like you do when you’re “crawling.” Only, obviously, you had a bit more momentum behind you and your forehead smacked the hardwoods covered only by your Dad’s thing pajama pants. I honestly thought you had caught yourself until you began to cry as I was scooping you up.
I think you cried for 5 seconds. Those 5 seconds that you should have been slithering across the bed you spent crying in my arms. I. Can’t. Even. Your face when you cry, O, it shatters my heart into a million pieces. Even after the doctor tells me you’ll be totally fine, after your Grandma tells me the story of the goose egg on your Aunt Cate’s head, even after your Dad tells me it’s okay and after you’ve successfully slept through the night 5 times awaking with smiles, I still only manage to find about 999,993 pieces of this heart to put back together.
The pieces are getting smaller but you, Honey Girl, you are killing me.