She grabbed my coffee mug. She reached onto the table and got her little fingers wrapped around my Super Grover mug and started pulling. I saw it happening. I yelled out. My arms flew out. The mug tipped. Coffee all over the floor, coffee all over the baby. Screaming. I yelled for Joe. We put her in a cool bath and tried to calm everyone down. We ended up at CHEO. She was fine.

I wasn’t quick enough to stop her.

I let her run around upstairs. She comes to the side of our bed. She reaches out, looks at me and says “up.” She’ll keep saying it until I lift her. She lies with her head on Daddy’s pillow, she pulls up the blanket, she bounces up and down as we tell her to stop. She rolls over. I see it happening. I get to her just after she starts falling. She ends up on the floor between the bed and the nightstand. She cries out.

I wasn’t quick enough to stop her.

She’s 16 months old. She’s had minor accidents here and there. They don’t bother me. She’s going to get cuts and bruises, they can’t be avoided. She’ll probably break a few bones – I’m not sure how I managed to avoid it all these years. I accept that her genetics are clumsy. I accept that she’s curious and she tests her limits – it’s one of the things I love most about her.

What I’m having trouble accepting right now is that I’m always right there, just one step behind. She always could get really hurt and I’m just out of reach. It scares me. Every time I fight with myself: Do I let her do what she wants and learn the lesson, or do I protect her from everything I can?

I guess right now I’m sitting in the middle, but it’s not entirely comfortable here .

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