When Brian and I first bought this house, the furniture that we had to fill it with consisted of a bed, a TV, a couch, a love seat, and a desk.
We ate on the floor for awhile and then decided that was for the birds. Or some other creature that sits on the floor to eat.
We were poor. And we were cheap. So we bought the cheapest, for-poor-people table and chairs we could find.
And they are cheap.
The chairs are poorly designed, being incredibly top heavy. The table top is glass. I knew it was only just a matter of time before there was an 'incident'.
Well. The time came two days ago. I was doing the dishes (again) and Lydia was over by the sliding glass door (which is near the table) babbling away to herself. I peaked over at her and she was busy smashing her mouth and nose up against the glass door, so I went back to my suds.
Then, CRASH! BLAM! POW! SCREECH!
I ran over to my screaming baby and HORROR!
She was flat on her back, pinned to the floor with a toppled over chair RIGHT ON HER FACE.
I couldn't believe the GUILT I felt. I moped around the house all day after it happened, replaying the events that led up to the 'incident'. Why wasn't I watching her more closely? Why did I let her play over by the table and chairs? Should I take her to the doctor? What if she's concussed and I let her go to sleep!? And on and on. I mean, really getting a little irrational, here. Then I happened to run into my neighbor just as he was getting back from the library with his two year old son.
I poured it all out to him. The incident. How bad I felt. "Just look at these bruises on her face!" I lamented. He looked at me with a knowing but sympathetic smile and said the following:
"Get used to it. Because it won't be the last time. Not by a long shot."
And that's when I realized:
I was in for it.