I should have seen it coming. A wiggly, strong almost-six-month-old baby near the edge of the bed, sitting upright playing with a teddy bear. I turned around for less than five seconds – could it have been only 2 seconds? – to grab a bib out of his drawer when I heard a thunk; then a scream.
Baby Hugh was facedown on the floor, screaming. I snatched him up as Tasha came into the room saying, “I know what happened! It’s okay, he’s okay.” Amy ran to get Hugh a sugar-coated pacifier while I cried, “I should have known! I’m the worst mother ever! I broke the baby!”
Hugh stopped crying before I did. He didn’t even have a bruise. On the car ride to run errands, he smiled and played, then fell asleep. “Oh my god, he fell asleep!” I shouted to Tasha. “Should I call the doctor?”
“It’s naptime,” said Tasha.
Well, anyway, I guess it was. But still. I’m going to keep calling him “precious little soul” all day instead of snotty nose face. And he can have all the karo syrup passies he wants. And be held when he naps. And when he spits up on my new Lucky jeans t-shirt, I’ll tell him its the sweetest smell in the world.