Staley looks so cute when she walks. Toddling around, unsteady on her feet, hands up for balance. So cute until...WHAM! Face planting on the driveway. BOOM! Hitting her head against the fireplace hearth. BAM! Tripping over her toy lawn mower. Slipping on her books on the floor. Getting blown over by the invisible breeze. She's pretty tough. Most times when she falls, she matter-of-factly says 'boom' and then gets back up and continues on her way. But she ends up with scrapes. Bruises. Occasional tears.
I worry about her. I try to keep her away from stairs, sharp corners, unforgiving surfaces, falling hazards. And not just because I am worried about strangers judgementally eyeing my bruised and scraped little girl. It's because it hurts me to see her cry. To wipe away her big tears. To know that she is hurting. And today, Staley fell down the stairs at her baby-sitters. Head first down five deck stairs. And I just get sick thinking about it. She apparently recovered quickly. My thorough inspection revealed a few new scrapes and bruises, but nothing major. I thank God that she is okay. I'm sitting here with tears welling up in my eyes, because the thought of something bad happening to my baby is more than I can handle. She's okay. Thank you, God, she's okay. But me? Staley falls and gets back up. I'm the one still crying.