Our stairs are a deathtrap. We’ve all fallen down them at least once. The first victim was SG, the day we moved in. She was 18 months and thumped down from the 13th stair. XC sustained the worst injury. He slipped from the fourth or fifth step and broke is finger. A few days later the he was in the hospital with a raging staph infection near the break. He was there, on IV antibiotics, for four days. Mr. G slips most often. Then again, he’s got the biggest feet. JP and I have fallen the least- probably a half-dozen spills between the two of us (and I can claim most of those).
Story: our front door is glass and for a while we didn’t have any blinds up. One evening I was doing bed checks, wearing my usual bedtime attire (re: one of Mr. G’s t-shirts and skivvies). I wiped out, slid down my back on the stairs and landed with my ass squashed against the window. I was mortified.
I stepped on something (*ahem* A CHILD’S TOY, PROBABLY) halfway down and bit it big time. Of all my falls, this one is the worst. I’ve got a tennis ball-sized bruise on my left forearm. My hand and wrist are scraped, rug burned, and bruised on the right. And my left cheek (yup, the one that’s generally covered) has a bruise as well. I’m so. so. sore.
And I am so declaring war on those damn stairs.
I want to redesign, rip them out, and rebuild them.
I predict Mr. G will balk at my plan which, of course, is ridiculous. He’s an architect for heaven’s sake! The man designs hospitals and 10-story additions and, therefore, should have no problem redesigning the stairs for our little house. Right? Right.
(Back me up here, people. This is gonna be a battle of wills.)
I don’t do resolutions- haven’t done them in years- but I will do a quest. 2012 will be the year those fucking stairs fall.
(If I had a dead armadillo I’d smack someone with it.)