Legends of the Fall

The last task in my strict vacuuming schedule is to empty the vacuum’s crud compartment. Our vacuum is one of those bagless varieties, which means that instead of needing to go through the hassle of changing a dusty bag after every few vacuum sessions, I need to go through the hassle of emptying a dusty plastic bin, or “crud compartment,” after every vacuum session. The bin is easy to empty, simply turn upside down and dump, but it also has a HEPA filter, a breathable cylinder made from a folded paper-like material whose job is to catch the dust in the air so it doesn’t contaminate the dust bin. This filter takes a minutes to beat clean in a job that needs to happen outside or else all that dust I worked so hard to vacuum up will escape into the house’s atmosphere and settle into a location strategically chosen to aggravate my allergies. I was in the backyard emptying this crud compartment the other day when Abbie decided she wanted to join me outside. Normally I just leave her inside so she can rearrange the toys I just picked up in that randomly strewn style she likes. It only takes me a minute to whack everything acceptably clean, and I figure that since I can’t find any dangerous chemicals around the house when I need them, there’s no chance she’ll find them in such a short time. Today, though, Abbie started banging on the door and whining when I stepped outside, so I opened the door and carried her outside with me. She stayed on the porch, as is her wont these days while I thumped the soot out of the various pieces of the crud compartment. I must have been extremely determined to knock that last piece of dust loose because I never noticed her wander near the edge. The next thing I knew, she was lying face down and screaming on the cement base for our porch.

Yes, I screwed up. While I should have been watching her, she took a header off our porch three feet away from me. She didn’t fall very far, maybe about 18-inches, but she did land on the cement with enough force to scrape her face pretty good. Here’s a picture of the horrifying scars caused by my delinquent parenting:



I felt confident in turning my back because she’s normally very good about staying away from the edges. She normally likes to toddle up to the edge, peek onto the ground inches below, turn around, and repeat the process on the other side. For some reason, on that day she decided to wander up to and over the front steps. Maybe she lost her balance. Maybe she saw an exceptionally enticing rock tempting her at the base of the stairs. Maybe a dog pushed her. Maybe she’s not as smart as I give her credit. Whatever the reason, I heard a thump much like a cantaloupe hitting the floor, followed by a lot of screaming from that cantaloupe. I dropped my vacuum parts, rushed over to swoop her up, brushed her off, and tried to calm her down, but boy was she mad. She was angrier than Hillary Duff at a Lindsey Lohan convention, or vice versa if you wish. She had every right to be mad, with the falling, and the bruising, and the bleeding, and the doubtless countless hours of therapy she’ll need to recover in the future. I feel really bad about it, and consider it my greatest failing as a father since I neglected to notice she was eating dog food yesterday.

Shortly afterwards I realized Abbie was fine. I carried her inside, washed her off a little, and she was good as new, except for the scarring. Then I set her in the safety of her crib, activated her aquarium for entertainment, and went back outside. That crud compartment wasn’t going to clean itself.