Seriously awful.

Something terrible happened yesterday. I suppose that since I've been a mother for quite a long time and since this pertains to my second-born, I'm actually lucky compared to a lot of parents. Lucky that something like this hasn't happened sooner. But, it goes without saying that I wish I had skipped this rite of passage altogether.

My 11 month old daughter fell down the stairs.

I don't think she so much fell as somersaulted. I couldn't say for sure since I DIDN'T SEE IT happen and only heard the horrific sounds. I have never been so scared in my entire life. Our house is two stories (not counting the basement which will be a third functional story once we get it finished-- someday). All of the floors-- including the kitchen-- are hardwood. There are a few area rugs scattered about for good measure, but we're talking hard surfaces here, stairs included. Our bedroom and office (my favorite part of the house!) are upstairs. When we are up here, we keep the baby gate across the stairway entrance for obvious reasons. On the main level, the entry to the stairs is secured by a french door. This door is to remain closed at all times when we are downstairs. I know it. My husband knows it. My son knows it. Shoot, even the baby girl knows it. It's been her mission in life for the past month or so to try to beat us to that doorway should we take one step past it without shutting the door. This kid doesn't so much crawl as RUN on her knees. She's got cat-like reflexes, I tell you. And when she hears footsteps behind her, she accelerates. It's a game to her. She laughs all the while. And there have been several instances -- with each of us at fault-- when she has actually made it past the doorway and begun to climb the stairs. She's even made it to the top. Could a child ever be more triumphant? But this is certainly not OK and we must be far more careful.

So, yesterday:

I was upstairs working in the office (what else is new?). I heard baby girl wake up and I proceeded downstairs to make her a bottle (the fact that I am not nursing her is immaterial to this story but might make for good subject matter on another day) and retrieve her from her royal crib. This is a good segment of our daily routine as she is very happy and appreciative. The smiles and coos I get during the afternoon ritual are priceless. At any rate, she is usually quite hungry and happy to focus intently on her bottle for at least the first 5 minutes or so. This is a kid with a bear's appetite! So I plopped her down in the usual spot in the front room with her bottle. Note that I haven't mentioned closing the french door on my way to the baby's room.....

I walked the mere 10 paces to the front door to check the mail. We have one of those old school mail slot deals where the mail is supposed to fall into a storage nook in our front closet. It rarely does and I usually have to open the front door and reach around and grab it from the slot itself. So I did that. Just as I was closing the front door, I heard the most terrible sound. Keep in mind that approximately 20 seconds have passed since I gave the baby her bottle....

It sounded like a bag of phone books being thrown down the stairs. Our stairway isn't visible from the front door-- only the door is. So I didn't see her falling. I just saw her land in a twisted heap at the bottom of the stairs. Before that could even register she began screaming. Or at least expelling as much sound as was possible with the wind knocked out of her. Her cheek was pressed to the floor and her body was twisted in a very unnatural looking way. I froze for a split second. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. It felt like a half an hour passed but I know it was only about a second and a half before I flew over and grabbed her up. There was a slight bit of runny blood coming from the general vicinity of her mouth. There were some scratches on the side of her face. At this point I was wailing, myself, but trying to comfort her at the same time.

I did manage to collect myself and determine that aside from the obvious pain of it, she was OK. Her 3 little teeth were intact. Her eyes were OK. She was coherent and no bones were broken. Once all of that had been established and I calmed down, I phoned my husband at work to let him know what had happened and to get some reassurance from him that we would all be OK. He, of course, was great. But as I was calmly letting him know what had happened and that all was not lost, I noticed that baby girl's cheek was swelling. And I lost it. I started bawling like a baby and then next thing I knew I was begging him to come home (having missed, in my panic, the fact that he already told me he was on his way).

In the end, she is fine and will be fine. But as bad as it is for something like this to happen at all, imagine my guilt at knowing that I was ultimately responsible. I know it was an accident and "these things happen" and we're not perfect, etc. Not good enough for me. I felt like the scum of the earth yesterday. I felt like the lowest form of life.

But, most importantly, I was reminded of my life's precious gifts and that I need to pay more attention to their details if I want to keep them. It was a good and timely lesson.