Emerson, oh Emerson. Why do you insist on hurting yourself? And others.
Dad went to the back of the house this morning and heard a crash and then the panicked steps of a concerned parent racing a baby through the home. Mom came running into the room I was in, and I could see blood across Emerson’s cheek, on Mr. Goat, and on mom’s hands. Not knowing what happened, I was immediately frightened and concerned all at once. This blood was the first of hers either of us has seen outside of the pediatrician’s office.
Before the emergence of my two girls dotted with tiny amounts of hemoglobin, Emerson was practicing her walking skills by pushing the dining room chair over the tile floor. Clumsy step after clumsy step until she lost her balance and fell into the side of the chair. Nose first. A cut on the outside and inside of her nose from the sharp edges of the seat were her punishment for her fawn-like legs. A cruel penance for a needed lesson. Worst part was, Jess was following her the whole time. Accidents happen in the blink of an eye.
Once her mom calmed Emerson Kate down, we got to experience another first just an hour or so later. The tiny teeth of her small jaw sinking into my skin. Not breaking the surface, but enough to shock us, that’s for sure. Yes, Emerson has taken to biting her parents. Like a zombie to brains, each time her mouth isn’t occupied with a pacifier, she’s leading muzzle-first looking for something to chew. So we’ll be researching how to stop a baby from biting other humans. I heard “bite her back” but I feel like we’ll explore other options first.
And a final human trick she learned today was trying to snuff out dear old dad with mom’s burgundy scarf. As we tried to watch Masha and the Bear, Sofia the First, or some other kid-friendly show, Emerson reached her small hands past dad’s head and gripped the neck-warming fabric. At first, it was just a game of peekaboo. Innocent fun complete with adorable giggles from Emerson and dad alike. Then she started to push the soft cloth into dad’s face, laughing maniacally. As I feigned suffocation, she pulled the cardinal-colored textile away from my face and moved it to my neck. My initial thought was that she knew what a scarf was actually for. Then she tightened her clutch and pressed harder. Yet again, this spawn of two loving parents was trying to commit patricide.
I removed the instrument of my doom from her grasp and put it away, looking wearily at this beautiful, homicidal child through squinted eyes. I swore to her mother, I haven’t been watching scary movies with her. Maybe Masha or Sofia are bad influences…