Drop in the Name of Love
January 27, 2006
One of my biggest parenting fears (besides SIDS, autism and dropping the baby into a volcano) has always been what would happen if I fell while holding Noah.
After my c-section, I was given strict orders not to carry the baby while walking for a week. And no carrying the baby up and down stairs for a couple more weeks after that. I followed these instructions the best that I could, which is to say, not at all, because I determined pretty much five minutes after the surgery that I was Super Abdominal Surgery Recovery Woman, give me a couple Advil and I HAVE NO LIMITS, THOSE AREA RUGS WILL NOT VACUUM THEMSELVES.
When Noah was just a few days old, Lactaction Consultant v.1.0 told me to always keep a grip on his thigh when I carried him, because this would keep him secure if I fell. I followed these instructions to the letter and walked around with a vise grip on my son's chubby thigh for weeks, although I could never quite work out a falling-down-the-stairs scenario in my head that didn't involve me swinging Noah around like a cartoon, whacking his head a few times and then triumphantly holding him upside-down by one leg at the bottom of the stairs.
I also refused to ever hold him in the kitchen, what with all that hard ceramic tile and Siletone countertops and food processor blades and other assorted hard surfaces that I could smash his head wide open on.
I'm much better about that now, although I'm sure you see where I'm going with this.
I fell down the stairs this morning with Noah in my arms.
Also in my arms: a tote full of bottles, a shopping bag full of bibs and extra baby clothes, my purse and my damn breast pump.
It wasn't a full ass-over-teakettle fall, but my heel got caught in my pants hem as I walked down our building's stairs. I saw the landing a few steps down and realized there was no way I could grab anything or put my hands out to break my fall, but it was monumentally important that I not fall flat on my face and crush the baby (who, looking back on it, was wearing his ridiculously puffy jacket and probably would have been just fine even if I'd just tossed him blindly on the landing)...so I just sort of gritted my teeth and bent my knees and BAM.
Full force, right on my knees. And then I was so top heavy with everything I was carrying I lost my balance and fell forward, so I stuck my elbows out and BAM.
And I lay there for a minute, propped up on my throbbing elbows, with the breast pump bag now sort of on top of my head, wondering WHO THE HELL TAUGHT ME TO DO THAT.
Noah just sort of looked at me, like why are we on the floor, Mom? And then he farted and sighed contentedly.
Kids. I SWEAR.
Who's paying for Mommy's kneecap replacement surgery in 30 years? Who? Is it Noah? Yes! It is Noah! What a good boy you are, Noah!
And now, I present Noah Storch: The Hugh Hefner of Infant Room C.
Noah would like to invite you to a party at his mansion. Perhaps you would like to meet him in the Grotto? With sexy results?
Noah may have had a few too many champagne cocktails.
However, nothing gets in the way of Noah's swingin', relaxin' good time.
Oh dear. Where is Noah's blonde companion who is tasked with keeping him upright and dignified at all times? Perhaps he should hire four or five more.
The party is now over. Please get the fuck out, you freeloading bunch of losers.