Three years old. My grandmother put a foldy stretchy useless gate-type thing in front of the door to the basement. The door itself was shut but never latched properly and could easily be nudged open by a toddler.
"Do not go near this door. Here, have a donut. The door is not for you. Have a cinnamon roll. Seriously, stay away from the door. Wouldn't you like a fistful of sugared lard?"
Whatever, lady. I've got doors to nudge open.
There must have been about twelve thunks. My grandmother came running, swaying her ass like a chicken, gobbling in fear like a turkey.
Cement floor, iron pipes, excellent for bashing baby's brains. But my fall was charmed; I fell head-first into a bucket of potatoes, laughing, little feet kicking in the air.
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