By Kimberly Zapata
I’ll never forget the sound “it” made. It wasn’t a bump or a crash. It wasn’t a slam, slap, or smack. Instead, it was a thud: My newborn baby’s body sounded like a sack of potatoes when she hit the hardened surface. When her fragile bones and soft skin struck the lacquered wood. When the soft spots on her head connected with our not-so-soft living room floor.
At first I didn’t know what to do.
How had she fallen? She was right there — next to me on the love seat. I was right there, and now she is crying. Her little fingers are reaching for my feet. What happened? What the hell happened?
But I didn’t have time to consider my transgressions. I didn’t have time to analyze what I did wrong — to figure out if I had fallen asleep or simply turned away for too long — instead I scooped her up. I cried into the crook of her neck as she dried her tears in mine, and after a few moments I found my phone and pressed a few buttons.
Shaking and crying, I dialed her pediatrician.