It happened one Christmas day back when my youngest was just a wee toddler. I was sure we had a future baseball star on our hands as he had been scolded for the umpteenth time not to swat the ornaments on mommy's pretty tree with his wiffle bat. Oh but he had perfect form and his father was quite proud, if only he would aim for something besides my precious tree.
We will never know exactly how it happened although the offending bat was later found at the scene of the crime. I was in the basement in quiet conversation with my husband when we heard a loud crash. We jolted up the stairs to find the Christmas tree splayed in the middle of the livingroom floor, our two older children standing on the couch plastered to the wall with wide eyes and a beseeching look that screamed "I didn't do it" and their little brother stranded UNDER the tree, little red TellyTubby slippers poking out in desperate kicks to be freed. I instantly pictured the Wicked Witch under Dorothy's house in The Wizard of Oz*.
Scrambling to lift the tree off our smooshed baby, we found he was quite alright, just a little shaken. We lost a few ornaments, but fortunately the tree is home to mostly plastic and fabric decorations. The tree stand, however, died. Since Christmas was over it didn't make any sense to try to find a way to rig it back into an upright position. We swept up the shattered pieces and then left the tree lying prone in the middle of the floor until we had more time to properly pack it up.
Later that day, the youngest was found behind the tree stand (still attached), turning it as if he were driving a big truck.
I totally failed to photograph a single portion of this epic tale. BAD MOM! BAD BAD BAD MOM!
*I type for shit and originally had "The Wizard of Ox". Typos of this magnitude truly amuse me.
23 hours ago