If you have ever been to our house one of the top three aspects you have noticed is our staircase. A previous owner flipped our 1940’s era home replacing the banisters with metal pipes and wires.
There are not walls on either side of the staircase which opens up the house in a pleasing way. You can stand on the third floor of our split-level house and using a voice just above a whisper communicate with someone in the basement. And the only thing keeping you from plummeting into the kitchen below are the palm-slicing wires strung in the place of a railing. It looks super hip and modern and only a little like a death trap. If you have been to our house since I have been pregnant, though, you probably have at least thought if not said out loud, “Wow, these stairs are going tough when the little guy starts walking.”
Well, it turns out they are a doozie for a tired mama carrying a baby too. I was walking down the stairs in feet stockinged to fight off the fall chill and bit it on our treacherous, wooden steps. There was no hand railing to grab, but since Dash was in my arms I probably wouldn’t have grabbed on to one anyway. Don’t worry about him; he rode me like a human surfboard down the stairs and was only crying because he was hungry before beginning our little tumble.
Thank goodness Zach was home. As I perched on the couch – so as not to touch my bloodied back to it – crying and feeding my baby, Zach ran to the store to get supplies to bandage me up. After getting over the shock and ordering me to wear a pair of rubber soled slippers at all times, Zach laughed and said the bandage at my lower back looked like it was covering a freshly inked tattoo. I repeated that comment to my mom when I told her the fall story later and she said, “Oh, like a tramp stamp.”
Yes, the unthinkable happened. My mom learned and correctly used the phrase “tramp stamp.” A true modern-day grandma.