Yesterday I visited one of the public playgroups that continues through the summer months. The director happened to be there at the entrance, and greeted us warmly as we came through the door, even though it's been at least three months since we were there last.
My son made a beeline for the elevator in the lobby--he's addicted to pushing buttons, and somehow, elevator buttons are a particular thrill. I think he has made the connection that if he presses that kind of button, something big will happen--he'll make a whole room move and suddenly appear, in other words.
"Sorry kid, we're not going to play with that," I said.
"That's right. Did you read about that kid in New York?" the director said.
"Oh--the boy who fell out of a building?" I said, my voice dropping down low.
"No, the one who got his finger caught as the elevator doors were closing," she cheerily replied. "They had to sew it back on." Her voice also dropped as she said the latter.
My heart did a somersault. But that's what it's like raising a toddler, I'm realizing: terror lurks around every corner (for the parent and more dimly, for the child as well).
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