At Least My Hair Stylist Will Survive the Recession

I put Andrew to bed just like any other night. I heard him talking for a while, maybe thirty minutes. Then he was quiet. Asleep at last.

Or so we thought.

As Rob and I got settled on the couches for our favorite tv program, we heard an unfamiliar, clink clink clink, coming from Andrew's room. Just as Jack Bauer was about to save the world, Rob muted the tv to hear the strange noise. I quickly assured him that Andrew was probably just flicking the plastic covering on the crib rails. Un-mute the tv, please!

But the noise continued. And as it did, I realized that this definitely was not a noise we had heard before. It sounded like two pieces of metal, clink, clink, clink. What in the world could he be playing with?

I went to investigate.

As I opened his door and the light from the hallway shown on my son, I realized that he was not playing with metal. No. In his hands were two four-inch shards of.....glass! I quickly turned on his overhead light and rushed to his crib. I found Andrew surrounded by broken glass. From a picture over his crib that he had knocked down. He was clinking the two pieces of glass on the wooden picture frame.

Miraculously, no cuts or even scratches were on his body. He was just calmly playing with shards of glass.

I don't even remember what happened on 24 that night. I was too shaken up at the possibilities, or other outcomes, that could have been when I opened the door to my son's room.

As I re-told the story to my mama, she said, "These kind of events are what give you grey hair and wrinkles".

Great. Almost drowning one month and playing with glass the next. My hair will be white by the time I am forty.