I was occupied in the washroom when the pounding of small fists and Elises frantic voice greeted the bathroom door.
“I’m in the WASHROOM!” I said using the routine washroom line.
“But Sammy’s on the table!” Urged Elise.
“WHAT?! Well get him off…” As I spoke it I debated if I truly should have asked. I pictured my three year old dragging my baby head first off the table onto the floor.
Which is a lesser bad ending?
I could hear Elise pacing and wondered if maybe it wasn’t just urgency over her baby brothers situation I’d heard in her voice, but perhaps something else as well.
“He’s too far in the middle I can’t reach him!” she shouted as she, just as suspected, took off to the other washroom to pee.
Trying my best to hurry I listened for a loud CLUNK from the kitchen, but only heard the tinkling of dishes.
My imagination filled the time with coming up with multiple drastic endings.
Upon walking into the kitchen this is what I found.
Water poured out on the table and my baby happily stomping.
The table is no longer sacred. That open faced book you see?
My Bible put out of reach… spared miraculously by the sporadic downpour.
All in all though, I am experienced enough to acknowledge that I lucked out on this one.
It could have been a LOT worse.
The dreaded evil ending chased away by dancing.