Today, I’m sharing my most horrid, terrifying moment as a mother. Feel free to do the same in the comments below …
During the year that Hubs and I lived in San Antonio, we spent a lot of time debating whether to buy a house there, or whether to return to Arkansas. Each weekend, we toured open houses in San Antonio, finding something wrong with each one. Clearly, I thought, this was a sign that we should return to the Land of the Hogs.
Anyway, one Sunday afternoon, right after church, we dropped by a cute, newly renovated cottage in an older part of town. Tootie was 2; the E-man only 4 months.
I decided to venture up to the finished attic, with a bored Tootie in tow. Only when we were about to go back downstairs did I notice that there wasn’t a banister. Worried that my tot would fall, I scooped her up and started down.
Anyone who knows me can guess what happened next.
One of my strappy little sandals wobbled and as my weight shifted, I lost my balance. As I hurtled forward, my poor girl was catapulted from my arms. I had just enough time to shriek before I ping-ponged between the walls and tumbled after her.
Poor Hubs had just rounded a corner when he heard all the commotion. Just as he arrived at the foot of the stairs, Tootie landed at his feet, stunned. And then his wife rolled down the last few steps and landed in a crumpled heap right behind his daughter.
Tootie, thankfully, was fine. But every time I looked at her mangled little sunglasses, I cried, thinking of how much worse it could have been. My ankle swelled a bit and my knee throbbed, but within a few days I was back to normal.
Needless to say — we didn’t buy that house.