motile

I arrive home from work to find Ruby inexplicably sprawled on the floor by the refrigerator. She's lying next to her bouncy chair, and a little further away is her playmat (Nothing's very far from anything else in our Brooklyn apt. We pay the big bucks for the YARD, not the square footage.) I examine the scene, trying to solve the mystery. "Is she supposed to be lying there?" I call to Jean, who's in the bedroom rocking Shepard. J emerges and gapes in horror at the mat. For a moment she clearly thinks Ruby has entirely vanished from our home, abducted perhaps. I point to where our daughter has stationed herself by the fridge, and her look changes from terrified to relieved and quizzical. Ruby grins at her mommy. "She fell out of the chair," I say, but Jean corrects me: "No, she ROLLED from the mat!"