Today, within a span of five minutes, Mr. Monk almost fell down a flight of stairs and ate a piece of glass. Fun times!
The gate was left open overnight and my husband forgot to close it this morning when he came downstairs first (and kindly let me take a nice, long shower-the relaxing effects of which were soon to be vanished). I was washing the dishes when I noticed that the gate was swinging open out of the corner of my eye. Just as I thought that I should go over and close it before the baby crawled by, I saw that he was actually on the top of the stairs, leaning over. I screamed and bolted over, scooping him up seconds before he toppled. I have never been so scared of anything in my entire life. I'm pretty sure I aged about 10 years in that moment.
The babe was crawling all over the kitchen, reveling in his new ability to go under and through the bar stools. At one point, he was lying on the ground playing with a piece of dirt he found in the corner under the island. Only it wasn't a piece of dirt. It was a shard of glass that I missed when cleaning up the millions of tiny pieces that shattered all over the floor when I knocked over a teeny vase last night as I was making chamomile tea (no, the irony is not lost). Again, my supermom reflexes kicked in and I grabbed the glass out of his hand as it was on its way to his mouth. You can imagine how much he loved that.
Why does it seem like my baby has some sort of sonar for the most dangerous thing in the room? He's like a pain-seeking missile. When can I expect him to grow out of this behavior? 30-40 years?