I Threw My Baby Down the Stairs

 By Jessica Glassberg for Kveller 

Okay, before you call child protective services, let me explain… 

Three months ago, my husband and I were playing with our 4 ½ month old when it became quite apparent that it was time to sing “Poop Monster” (to the tune of The B-52s, “Rock Lobster”). We’ve pretty much created a song for everything involving our daughter: “We’re Not Gonna Cry Now,” (“We’re Not Gonna Take It”), “Rolling on the Carpet” (“Rolling on the River”) and “Food Glorious Food…” that one needed no editing.

After a brief stare off to determine who would change the little stinker, it was I who danced my little one upstairs to change her. I sang; she smiled. After the “Bare Necessities” were complete, I picked her back up, gave her a big kiss on the cheek and as she smiled at me, we headed for the stairs. And it was right then that I threw her.

Please put the phone down and understand that it is my “Jewish mother guilt” that has lead to a slight exaggeration where I felt like I intentionally threw my baby down a flight of stairs.

The truth is, I was cradling my daughter in my arms, when I slipped. My little darling was startled and cried for about five seconds and then smiled for the next hour. I, meanwhile, have been scarred for life. And I’m not just talking about the giant gash and bruise I have on my forearm from where I slammed into the banister in an attempt to protect my baby’s still-developing brain from permanent trauma. I am referring to this all-encompassing feeling that I am a bad mother.

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