Dear Garrett:
Let’s just cut to the chase.
Last night you tumbled down the stairs.
As you’re still just a wee little guy, I think Daddy and I lost about
five years off our lives as a result. It
started like this.
The evening was going fine.
You had eaten a great dinner.
(Daddy had meatloaf waiting for us when we got home.) You were being
silly with Mr. Potato-Head, or as you call him, “Mr. Oh-tay-toe”, and walking
around with your Pooh backpack, claiming to be ‘shopping’ at Grampie’s house. Daddy gave you a bath, and you were sitting
on your potty watching a show. After
potty, it was a bit of a struggle to get you to stop the silliness and into a
diap and your footie pjs.
Lately, you’ve enjoyed tearing through the house in your
birthday suit, giggling and shrieking as if being chased. After a couple of
exhausting rounds of this, Daddy brought you upstairs to put your pjs on, but
you were not happy and as fatigue set in, you got into one of your moods. Defeating the purpose of us putting you into
a timeout, you put yourself into one.
Sitting in your rocking chair, with your stuffies, and door closed. Daddy and I went back down stairs, prepared
to give you just a few minutes to settle down before back up for story and bed
time.
A few minutes later, your door opened. One by one, you tossed your beloveds down the
stairs in a silent protest. I no sooner said
softly and facetiously to Daddy “let’s hope he doesn’t toss HIMSELF down…” that
we heard thump, thump, thump, and watched in horror as you tumbled slowly (yes,
slowly! Thank goodness because I think any faster would have produced worse
results) in a blur of blue polar bear pajamas. Like those scenes in a movie or
tv show, where you hear a distorted Nooooooooooo and everything happens in slow
motion……that’s what it felt like. Daddy
and I jumped up, (and Gabby too, who was clearly concerned by the ruckus) raced
over to catch you before you hit bottom, and scooped you up. I started to cry,
you started to cry. You were looking at
me over Daddy’s shoulder as I was sobbing, and that made you sob. I’m sorry if I scared you by that reaction,
but you scared US!
Daddy brought you over to the couch for examination. Did you hit your head? Amazingly, there was no sign of that. No red
bumps forming, no busted lips or bit tongues, and thankfully, no injured
teeth. Did you break anything? You were squirming quite a bit, but did
mention your toe. Your toe? So off came the pjs and what looked to be
quite a gorgeous bruise forming on your shin.
But your toes seemed ok. They
still wiggled. I was off in the bathroom, trying desperately to compose myself
while trying not to think of all the other possible scenarios that this could
have ended with.
When I came back out, you said sweetly “I’m ok, momma.”
Really? Yeah, well I’m not. We gingerly
put your pjs back on, collected your neglected stuffies, and carried you all
back upstairs to your room. You didn’t
want me to read you a story, but instead wanted to run around your room and put
yourself in your crib. (Don’t even get me started on THAT new trick.)
Once in your crib, all tucked in, thumb in mouth, Eyeore the
giraffe (yes that’s what you call him, although most often it just comes out as
Yore) firmly grasped in your fingers, I asked if you were alright. Again you said “I’m ok, momma. I fall down
stairs!” with a proud and rather impish grin.
To dreamland you went, while I crept downstairs, settled
into the recliner, and Daddy and I looked at each other…each of us letting out
a sigh that I think we’d been holding since first realizing that you were in
fact okay. We both checked on you
several times before our own bedtime. And each time, you were in a dreamy
slumber, snoring softly. The rest of the evening passed slowly, as we were
unable to get the image of you plummeting down the stairs out of our heads and
imagining all of the other things that could have resulted.
Daddy said it plainly—“he is one tough little boy.” Then he did not calm my fears by adding “just
wait until he falls off his skateboard for the first time, or busts himself up
on a bike.” What? Umm, no. Never. (This from the girl who, at nine years old,
flipped over on her bike, and walked away with a fat lip, a broken thumb, and a
broken nose. I didn’t ride a bike again until at least five years later. But I
digress.)
After what felt like the longest night ever, you awoke at
your usual time, and I could hear your chatter over the monitor. You were holding court with your stuffies and
maybe telling them of your adventures the night before. As we were getting dressed, we asked if you
remembered what happened last night?
Again came the grin and the “I fall downstairs!”
Surprisingly, the bruise we thought was forming last night
seemed not to make any kind of appearance this morning. I have a feeling it
still may show up. This morning, as I
dropped you off at daycare, you once again proclaimed with pride, your mishap
from the night before. I think we’re
going to have to have a little talk that it’s NOT something to be proud of.
Meanwhile, although you are our tough little man, it would be
nice to never have to experience this again or at least any time soon. Please
and thank you.
Love, Momma and Daddy
