This building process has yielded it's fair share of opportunities for our children to seriously harm themselves: pits, gaps in floors, long nails, exposed electrical wires, sharp equipment. . . Yet all have escaped relatively unharmed. (Please, don't ask me to elaborate on my use of the term "relatively.") The miracle of this is, in large part, that I haven't done much to supervise my childrens' wanderings. They come and go. Up and down. In and out. And, despite being left mostly to their own devises, they have kept themselves out of trouble.
But even I have not been able to rest easy about the hallway upstairs. It offers a 10 foot drop straight down to the concrete floor of our livingroom, and has been completely exposed for a year now. My preventative actions have ony really extended to the littlest one. In theory, he is not allowed to go upstairs without one of us. (Please don't ask me to elaborate on my use of the term "in theory.") The eldest have been free to go up and down, as I have long since recognized, within them, a healthy sense of fear and self-preservation. But my heart still lurches when I see them peek their heads over the edge and holler, "hi mommy!"
I have had friends decline a tour of the upper floor because of the edge. And most who have built up the courage to climb the stairs have slowly and cautiously shuffled sideways, hugging the wall, until they reach the safety of a bedroom. We have had a few questions concerning our intensions for a railing, and have resisted the urge to tell people, "oh, no, we like it this way. Better view." But our tardiness in putting one up has had everything to do with the order in which things needed to be done. This explanation had been met with patient understanding, until recently, when my mother finally gave us an ultimatum; " I won't come visit until you get that railing up!"
Last night, Aidan finally began the process. The middle section is up while the last two will be completed this evening. True to her word, my mom will be visiting this Friday.
