I am twenty-five, and I have a three-year-old daughter and a newborn son. I am also recovering from a C-section I had less than six weeks ago. My husband has always had trouble paying attention, but I never imagined it could lead to this.
I was inside folding laundry when I heard it—a sound that made my blood run cold. It was my toddler, screaming with a kind of primal terror I’d never heard before. “Dad, help!”
I dropped the clothes and sprinted outside, my fresh incision screaming in protest. What I saw was a parent’s worst nightmare. Our newborn son, strapped in his stroller, was careening down our sloped driveway toward the busy street where cars zoom by at all hours.
I screamed and ran, a raw, animal sound tearing from my throat. I reached the stroller just as its front wheels touched the asphalt, yanking it back from the path of an oncoming car. My heart hammered against my ribs. My baby girl, who had tripped while trying to run after her brother, had scraped hands and knees.
