Earlier this fall, after The Boss took her first journey down the stairs all by her lonesome and attempted to do it again, I whipped out my video camera. Her stair-to-stair butt bounce and the smack of her lips as she tasted the freedom of bi-level living were too adorable not to record for posterity.
As situations are wont to do when I try to get posterity involved, they quickly went awry.
I know it should be easy to berate myself for being a bad mother (on more than one level) as I watch this and double over in laughter, squishing up on my 16-weeks-pregnant midsection. But I can’t muster too much guilt. It’s the idea of it all: her glee; my pride; the click of the “record” button; and the downward spiral.
I can laugh because she was unscathed. I can laugh—and believe me, if I didn’t, I’d cry--at this subtle clue as to just how very bad I am in a crisis. I can laugh because she seems to be saying “boobie” instead of “boo boo.”
I can laugh—and maybe you’ll think me insensitive for saying so— because sometimes motherhood is a real trip, even when it’s not just mama taking the fall.