Last night, while I was making dinner (ratatouille and polenta, but if any of the c-h-i-l-d-r-e-n ask just call the v-e-g-e-t-a-b-l-e-s "sauce," okay?), I just happened to glance in the direction of the living room right when Ezra climbed up on the back of the couch...and toppled the crap over, headfirst, onto the hardwood floor.
Jason and I bolted towards him in that excruciating slow-motion-feeling way, like you're already running before the screams even start but you're still terrified you won't get there until some awful injury manifests itself. I think Jason may have skipped going around the couch and just leapfrogged over it, because he had Ezra scooped up in his arms before I got there. (Though I was slowed down by nailing my hip on the dining room table, for I am incapable of getting from Point A to Point B without injuring my damn self.)
Ezra was fine. He cried for a minute, asked for some kisses, and was off and running before I could get four words into my standard "AND THAT'S WHY WE SAY NO CLIMBING ON THE...argh, forget it" speech. He. Was. Fine.
This here toy cooking pot, on the other hand...
His HEAD. Ezra caused that dent with his HEAD. Ezra does not even have a bruise.
First day of preschool is tomorrow. Part of me knows he's going to be just fine; awesome, even. But part of me kinda wishes I could send him in wearing a helmet, all the same.