Three Times in Two Days

One day, really.

Just slightly over a 24 hour time span.

That's how many times mGma fell between Saturday afternoon and Sunday evening.

The first time she fell in the kitchen. I wrote about that already, wondering how these falls seem to (fortunately? strangely?) time themselves to occur on the rare occasions that I'm at home.

The second time she fell was at 6 a.m. Sunday. She fell out of bed. Rolled out of bed, I suppose, is more like it. Whatever she did, she ended up on the floor, hollering, early Sunday a.m. The one Sunday that I probably could have slept for a few more hours (unlike most Sundays, which have become my insomnia days here recently). She's lucky I am a mother and, thus, have Mom-Dar ears. Her bedroom is on the opposite side of the house, and her door was shut AND my door was shut, but because I am a trained, experienced mother I can discern, in my sleep, between a freight train bearing down on the house (something not worth waking up for) and a muted cry for help (something for which I will immediately bolt upright). Had it just been Donald and William in the house, well, she still might be lying on the floor today. But fortunately I was there to haul her (rather substantial) hiney up off the floor.

The third time she fell was Sunday evening. She was in her room, getting ready for bed, and simply missed her chair and ended up on her butt again. It's not a surprise that she should miss like that, since she doesn't really sit so much as she sort of aims and crashes down in a chair. So yet again, I went and scraped her up off of the floor.

I told her then that was ENOUGH. The third time had to be IT. No more falling, dammit. I'm going to pull my back out lifting her up. And one of these days she's really going to hurt herself.

What is this all about, do you suppose?

Three times? In one weekend? And only when someone was home.

Is it merely coincidence? Or is this her way of saying that she doesn't really want to go to Robinwood? Or is it her way of getting my attention, since I refuse to vegetate in the living room, staring at the TV with her? Or maybe it's that she's decided since someone is home, she doesn't need to be quite as careful with herself; there's someone there to pick her up, so being a klutz is acceptable?

I'm thinking that it's a little of all of the above. With a strong leaning towards not truly wanting to go to Robinwood.

I'm so afraid of that. That she's going to get over there and love it for awhile, but then three or four months down the line, after I have redecorated her room and gotten extremely comfortable having my house back to myself, she's going to decide she's miserable there and want to come back. And I told her she can come back.

It'll be interesting to see what the future holds in that regard.

Will she like Robinwood? Will she make friends? Will she, perhaps, maybe, possibly be happy?

I'm no believer in miracles, so I'm not going to hold my breath for any of that. But the possibility does exist, so there's hope.

This Saturday has been designated as moving day.

Stay tuned.