My kid rocks. She's hearty but not a bull, energetic but not exhausting, silly but not annoying, inquisitive, sometimes a little dangerously so, CANNOT sit and watch tv, and gives the best kisses, and by kisses I mean she makes a "muah" sound and moves her face in your direction. She rarely actually touches you, but I think she's just being respectful of your personal space and practicing self-awareness...she knows that there's a 96% chance that she's got snot and spit on her face. So thoughtful.
This past weekend my hearty, little package of Italian robustness fell down the stairs. She hit every.single.stair. I was in her bedroom at the top of the stairs picking out her outfit, and she was playing just out of my reach. Toddlers, like cockroaches, move much faster than you would expect. I looked up and there she was, playing with a hanger (amongst her favorite toys). I looked down to pick out a pair of socks, and that's when I heard a sound that every mother innately knows even if she's never heard it before. It's the sound of your child falling down the stairs. It's a cry, thump, cry combination that can't be achieved with any other activity. I tried to run down the stairs and catch her, but she was always three stairs ahead of me. She finally hit the bottom landing on her tummy...GOD BLESS that big, round, baby tummy that hasn't "thinned out" despite her pediatrician's constant promises. She got up so I knew nothing had broken, and what did my little, frightened, round cherub do while I held her to my maternal breast? Did she cling to me, crying and scared while we shook together, an unspoken sharing of an emotional experience? No. She pushed me away and then yelled at me. A lot. I mean, she gave me a piece of her mind. When she was done disciplining me, she wiggled down,
turned around, and climbed back up the stairs. See? I told you. My kid rocks.
