Azita is wobbling through life these days. And climbing. Every time I turn around she’s either doing the zombie walk — you know the one where she puts her arms out in front of her and takes very wobbly and jerky steps, as if her legs feel dead — or she’s climbing something. So this is why all that childproofing stuff is necessary. I’m finally getting it. The thing is, no matter how fast I act, she somehow manages to pull things on top of her, run into things, and fall — she’s a master of the faceplant.
Now I know all of you seasoned mothers out there are laughing at me. I know you told me so. I just couldn’t fathom what you meant at the time. Plus, don’t we all think “that” happens to other people, not us? So, here I am, mother to a daughter that is part adorable baby girl and part psycho mountain goat. It’s actually fun. Yes, it is tiring, especially after a very long day in the office, but I love playing with her much more now that she interacts with me in more interesting and active ways.
The problem is that, as I said, this girl is accident-prone. Just like her mom and her aunt. And just like the both of us, she is also always covered in bruises. They are all over her body. She looks like a Dalmatian. Or a victim of abuse. Here’s where the irrational fear kicks in. At least, Roger says it’s irrational, but I am not so sure. What if her daycare providers think she is an abuse victim? Or her pediatrician? Or anyone else who might see her without her clothes on? I can’t say that I wouldn’t think so if I didn’t actually see all the accidents. My sister knows what I’m going through. Her middle son inherited our clumsy ways, and he is a regular at the ER and urgent care. She’s also always afraid that Child Protective Services will come knocking on her door any minute now.
It can’t be an irrational fear if we both think it, right? The thing is that this fear, irrational or not, is leading me to bring up my daughter’s clumsiness in just about every conversation I have. You know, just in case someone notices the plethora of bruises and decides to report me. Maybe I should just make a sign to wear around my neck: “Please Don’t Take My Baby. She did this all herself. I swear.”