This morning, Boy was perched on the wrought iron frame at the end of our bed. I've asked him not to do this on many occasions. He tells me to just calm down. Stop nagging.
So, anyway, this morning he did the thing I've been warning him might happen - he toppled over backward and fell straight on to his back. I rushed round to him, barely restraining my Itoldyouso.
But he knew what I was thinking.
I..I..I'm ok, he managed to stammer, trying to hold back the tears.
I picked him up, carried him to the bed and cuddled him.
He cried a little, but kept talking:
I put my arms out to flap, but I was too close to the ground so I couldn't put them out again. So I couldn't fly.
But I glided a bit. Did you see me? Actually, I fell really slowly, because my shirt filled up like a parachute.
I said: it looked to me like you fell straight on to your back.
No, I landed like an airplane.
On your landing gear?
Yes... well, no... On my feet. See, I put my feet down like this.
I laughed. Couldn't help it.
Anyway, he's fine.
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