Not My Fault

The attempting-to-pull-myself-up-on-anything-that-is-remotely-within-my- reach-and-then-bob-around-trying-to-get-at-things-I'm-not-supposed-to injuries have begun in earnest. Only this time it was under Steve's watchful eye, not my own. And the boo-boo is a lot more visible.

I was off at the dentist this afternoon, having the time of my life, while Steve and the boy were at home living it up. We have installed exactly one baby gate in the whole house, between the kitchen and the living room, the purpose of which was mostly to keep the cat from using our house as a litter box, as he had become accustomed to doing while we were out of town. Being the gymnastic all-star that he is, Bry likes to use the gate as pommel horse. (I have no idea what a pommel horse is, but it's more interesting than saying that he pulls himself up to stand using the gate.) I'm not clear on the details, but Bry was again pulling up on the gate when there ensued a tumble, some whimpering and CRYING, followed-up by an impressive shiner:

The post-fall bath made everything OK.

Chicks dig scars, right?

When I got home from cheerfully having two cavities filled (is this what happens when one approaches 30 - everything falls apart?), Steve was cowering behind the couch.* He was holding Bry out in front of him like some sort of baby shield, as if I might be distracted by his cuteness long enough to not notice that Steve had allowed Bry to end up looking like a prizefighter on a bad night after I had been gone for less than an HOUR away from home. I just kissed Bry, and laughed at Steve while mouthing two words: vindication, baby.

*OK, he was actually giving Bry a bath.