When I began junior high my only brother was Christopher and he was two and a half years old. He was a bundle of energy. It seemed everywhere we went he was diving over something or getting into mischief. It seams some children who are like that are mean, but Christopher was very nice. When he was a baby, Mom bought him some new shoes. Christopher must not have liked them, even though they were made to look like hiking boots. (I’m sure. Hiking boots for a new-born baby?) Well, Mom tried to put them on him and he was so wiggly, that she worked at it and worked at it and after ten minutes she finally succeeded in getting them on him. But he wiggled right out of them. When he was older, and getting ready to walk, Mom put him in the walker and it held him up a bit to give him some practice walking around. We were in the front room listening to him scoot around in the kitchen on the linoleum floor. We didn’t hear him, though, move to the entry way that led down the basement stairs. Pretty soon we heard the horrible sound of him falling down the un-carpeted stairs with his walker. Mom ran down and got Christopher. She picked him up in her arms, brought him back up stairs and sat in the rocking chair in the front room and soothed him the rest of the day as he whimpered. Christopher escaped that incident with a big scrape on his forehead. Even though myself and four girls before him had been raised with that same walker, that had never happened before. The result was that we always kept the door to the basement shut after that, especially when we had a baby in the house. Even years later, when my own children were over for a visit, Mom would make sure the basement door was shut. And she would remind everyone about the time Christopher had fallen down the stairs in his walker.
No comments:
Post a Comment