The ritual family gathering wouldn't be complete without something horrible happening.
Like a toddler falling down the stairs.
It's been years since we've had a little one running around and they are easily misplaced. One minute they're in the corner, the next, they have their hands in the dog dish and the very next they're taking a header down the stairs.
That's what happened at our Father's Day celebration yesterday.
The baby Skylar must have gotten into her mama's Red Bull, for she certainly had wings.
I've tried hard to babyproof our house, but there's always something that's missed.
Like the plants placed lovingly on a teetery table just waiting to be pulled down. Or an errant cellphone or remote just waiting for sticky hands.
Of course, there is also the perfect canine storm: Sophie the pug, just the right size to push down a two foot todder; Finnigan the extra-large labrador with an everready tail to launch her into space; and Gordie the demented pug who shits himself whenever he get the scent of the newbie child.
Eventful, ever eventful.
But toddercise was just what was needed on this stressful weekend of death and taxes. On Saturday, we sadly dispatched a family friend and then returned home to get the small business taxes finished and off to the revenuers.
So Sunday with Skylar was a welcomed event.
Even if she did get herself a goose egg.
I'd take ten minutes of Skylar in whatever mood she's in just to escape the dreariness and sadness I've experienced of late.
Up with toddlers.