I broke my kids’ walker.
They were both in awful moods so I thought I would make them laugh. I put one foot in, then the other, and then attempted to sit down in the small seat. They thought it was the funniest thing ever and laughed until they cried at big mommy trying to fit into a pint-sized contraption. After that we all went out for ice cream and the kidlets went to bed without a fuss.
I wish that’s how it went anyway.
The reality begins with my daughter’s room which is basically a flea market with an assigned crib and dresser. All the unused baby things are in there, furniture we’re planning on getting rid of, a bookshelf holding more books that make Luke and I think we’re cool instead of books we actually read, etc. It’s a bit of a danger zone, but since my daughter only sleeps in there, in the safety of her crib, I figure it’s fine for now. (That was until last week when she learned to climb out of her crib. Why has no one invented a lid for cribs? Like one of those mesh ones they have for lizard tanks.)
Yesterday morning I went into my daughter’s room to get… something. I don’t know what, but I do know I was holding my almost one year old son. On my way out I tripped over something–probably my own foot–and began going down. With my son in my arms I couldn’t very well fall willy nilly so I held him tighter as I twirled around pirouette style and spiraled towards the floor in slow motion.
There was a soft landing of sorts as I fell/sat on the kids’ walker. I thought I was safe and stable for a split second, free of injury or blood, until my weight caught up to the moment in time, and ever so slowly my body crushed the walker, bending the frame at an unsettling angle.
At least my son was okay. It’s all about sacrifice, right?
After this moment, someone did have ice cream, but it wasn’t the kids, and neither of them went to bed without a fuss.
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