I knew I had it in me. I was watching my kids this morning and I had another one of those selfish experiences where I wanted to eat breakfast so I cooked some french toast.
Our 10 month old was sitting on the couch and I was nearby on the loveseat eating off a paper plate. I saw our baby move closer to the edge and he sat teetering for a moment like Humpty Dumpty. Then he pitched forward and looked to land directly on his head. Without hesitating I thrust myself off the loveseat and slid across the floor like an allstar outfielder. I've got roadrash on my knee and elbow but I was able to get my hand under the boy before he hit the floor. My french toast went everywhere.
Even though I saved him from a rough landing, he decided to cry for awhile anyway. It was redeeming though, after I had to stand there like a dunce when my daughter went rolling into the bog. I had the same impulse then but my brain quickly killed it, informing me, "This isn't a pile of french toast... it's a baby. You stay put."
I think I would do well if I had time to play on a sports team.
In other Sports news... Ethan did well in T-ball this week. It was the first week his coach actually pitched it to him in a game and he smacked it to third base on the first swing. When he was on base, I saw him talking to the opposing teams second baseman: a girl with a pink glove.
I asked him what they talked about. He said, "She's a Shark. I told her we are The Rockies... because we rock."
He's already smoother than his dad.