This morning, Ian discovered the rain.

He sat there for 45 minutes, eating some pear and chopped up Apple Pie Larabar, watching the raindrops.

His contentment continued after breakfast (maybe it was the meditation music I was playing?), so I was happily cooking away, talking to my mother on the phone, assured in the fact that he was safe on our baby-proofed bottom floor.

Then, I heard the toilet lid shut. I peeked around the corner into the livingroom and saw nothing.

My heart stopped. I left the baby gate at the bottom of the stairs open. He had climbed an entire flight of wooden stairs, gone into the bathroom, and closed the lid, all the while not making a peep.

I flew up the stairs, bracing myself for a drowned baby in the toilet. He was fine with a slightly damp right arm, on his way to our bedroom to play with dad’s guitars.

My heart is still racing. I have NO excuse. This was the second time I’d left the gate open this morning, which I NEVER do. I’m the nagging shrew who constantly emits heavy sighs as she shuts baby gates and closes bathroom doors yet again after someone else forgot. Not me.

I can only thank whomever above was looking out for my little Ian when I wasn’t. Thank you.