INCHES from the Little Mister’s head, my not-quite-empty wine glass smashed into tiny pieces of shrapnel. It was the morning after, I wasn’t drinking at the time, I was carrying it to the dishwasher, I was balancing it on a plate so I wouldn’t have to make two trips, I was trying to save him from catching his fingers in the draw. There are so many excuses. He didn’t get hurt.
But I’ve not stopped thinking about it for three days. I nearly broke a glass over my Little Mister’s head. He could have got glass in his eyes, his mouth, his precious skin, he could have dug his hand, knees and feet into the floor where all around him tiny pieces had scattered. He didn’t, I know, but how did it so nearly happen?
I was carrying a pile of dishes gathered from the last evening into the kitchen. I should have done them the night before. There he was at my feet, while I balanced them – carefully – on the last metre of my journey. He looked at me and grinned. Two little bottom teeth on show. And I realised he was playing with his new favourite toy. The kitchen drawers.
His mini-sized chubby fingers were gripping the top of the bottom draw he had just pulled open. With his other hand, he had clasped the handle of the drawer above. He was teetering on his feet, balancing only on one closed drawer and on the handle of one open drawer. Which was about to slam shut.
I went to grab him with one hand. In my other hand, the plate shook, and the glass fell. Slowly. I watched it.
His fingers were safe. I’d got him. But the noise of a glass smashing all around him terrified his sensitive soul. He was safe.
It was a reminder that could have ended quite differently. We thought we had baby-proofed, but that was before the Little Mister started cruising round the furniture. Now, more than ever, I can’t take my eyes off him. And as for letting down my guard and balancing a glass on a plate over his head – I won’t be doing that again.