I almost killed my baby. I'm not kidding. Maybe exaggerating a little bit, but I think I have the right. I dropped Julian. On his face. On the hard cold pavement of the driveway. It happened in slow motion, only I don't remember much of it, because it all boiled down to Julian is on the ground and may be really hurt. But he wasn't. He had a small red bruise on his forehead and was just fine. He cried for a few minutes, but got over it quickly.
I was shook up. How did I let him go? Isn't a mother's instinct suppose to be to care for her child first? How did I let him go? How? How? How?
I did hurt my ankle. It crept up on me over the rest of day, eventually driving me to the doctors for an xray. It isn't broken, but sprained. It's swollen and painful and has left me somewhat helpless. I would have felt better however if it were broken. A broken ankle seems more official. If I had a broken ankle that would almost justify dropping the baby, right? I know it is a convoluted equation that I have created. Silly.
And now here I sit, in a house by myself. The boys are with a babysitter, and I have been home all day with my ankle on ice watching bad TV. Of course this actually seems like a reward. How often do I have a day all to myself without having to do a single damn thing?
So now I feel guilty on top of it all. I am getting rewarded for being a klutz who dropped my eight month old!
Okay I'll stop now.