I’m only telling you this because we are such good friends.   And also because if you think Child Services should be called, you don’t know where I live.

I was on the phone with my mother when I noticed the Munchkinette sidling up to the front of the Christmas tree.  Now this puts her between the tree and the middle front window, so between being on the phone and a dicey sightline, I don’t see what happens next.  Until, of course, it’s too late.

And what happens next is that I see her proudly holding a glass Christmas ornament in her little hand.

I give out yell because I’m thinking she’s going to drop it. I begin running toward her.  Er, well, probably lurching is a better term for it.

She does me one better.

In one of those slo-mo effects in the movies, I watch as she crushes the ornament in her hand.

At this point, I let out a full blown scream because I’m envisioning myself in the ER with her thrashing around as they stitch up the million cuts in her hand.  Also, I’m a little pissed because it’s one of the intricate ones handed down to me from the 1950’s and I’m wondering why she couldn’t have chosen a regular old ball.

So I’m continuing the lurch and watching what seems like hundreds of little glass pieces scatter around her, which I finally crunch through and grab her.

I frantically seize her tiny hand, fully expecting shards to be stuck in it and blood dripping down her arm.

Nothing.  Not a scratch.

No aftermath of any kind except for me losing a very cool ornament and having to thoroughly vacuum. 

We’re thinking of having her pick out our lottery numbers.