This morning, I woke up early, having gone to bed early the night before. I was up before Barak, and then heard him in his crib, awake but happy, having a conversation with his toes, his sippy cup, his blankie, and the walls. I got dressed. Got my things together. Picked up Barak, who greeted me with upstretched arms and a very contented, "Mama!" Nursed. Changed his diaper. Got him dressed.
We were ready to leave, and I called him to the door. We went outside, and I had Barak's hand in one of my hands and my keys in the other. We were on the back stoop, which is eight steep wooden steps up from the concrete patio in back. I locked the door, and Barak, spying the stairs, pulled his hand out of mine. I reached out to grab him, which should have been easy. He was close, the stairs were a few feet away. But my skirt caught on the door. I couldn't reach him in time. I screamed no, no, no! as he smiled, grabbed the banister, stepped confidently down the first step, missed, and fell, head over heels, in terrible slow motion, all the way down, all the way down to the concrete below.
I watched him fall and heard myself screaming and pulled my skirt free all at the same time, trying to catch him, always a step behind. I only caught up with him at the bottom. A moment of horrible silence. And then he started to cry.
He only cried for a few minutes, while I comforted him and felt him wildly for blood, broken bones. There weren't any. He stopped crying, looked around, held onto me for a minute.
And then wanted to get down to play in the grass.
He was fine. He ate his bagel in the stroller, waved at the bus driver, flirted with another passenger, smiled and played the whole way to daycare. Still shaking, I stayed with him to watch him for half an hour for signs of lethargy, anything not right. Nothing. I went to work, called the doctor, made an appointment for the middle of the morning. Brought Barak in to get him checked out. He's fine, says the doctor. Fine. Toddlers are resilient. They're tougher than they look. And falls down stairs are not as bad as they seem--they're just a lot of little falls, and only the first step is a hard fall. He's fine.
And thank God, he does seem fine. But as I watched him fall, heard the thump of his little body hitting stair after awful stair, I thought I heard another sound as well. The sound I am always listening for, every moment of every day, though I try not to strain my ears, try to fill my mind with other music and other voices. I thought I heard the sound of the other shoe dropping--on this, my life, this strange and wonderful gift I don't know why I have.
3 comments:
You have it because you deserve it and Hashem chose to give it to you. Thank Him/Her and try to give your psyche a break.
Yes, those little people are quite bouncy and well-cushioned. I held my breath through the first half of this post, though logically I knew you wouldn't have written it unless he turned out all OK in the end. But, yes, life can be good. You can have a good life. You can deserve, be entitled to, and hang onto a good life.
Oh, my dear, I wish I could hug you. That story touches such a chord in me: my little one, too, had a fall that froze my heart although he was fine, and I too was just a hair slow to catch him and save him from it, and I too was desperately frightened and the world stopped for me too (only just that little bit too late). I didn't have the other shoe to worry about, though, and I understand how much more terrifying that would have made it for you.
Take comfort that all is well -- all. Life is good and will stay that way. You have paid your dues.
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