“Little Legs?” she called.
The baby was in her arms, freshly diapered and tickled under the neck. Her older son was right behind her pushing a truck back and forth across the rug, until suddenly, he wasn’t there.
The room was conspicuously absent of vrooming.
She stepped out of the nursery, pushing the door completely open.
The baby cooed and laughed with his pink tongue hanging out of his mouth, oblivious to his mother’s worry.
“Little Legs?” she called again, louder this time.
She peered into the kitchen and down the hallway.
The door squeaked as it swung towards her and a tiny figure jumped out at her from the dark shadow.
“Hide!” Little Legs shouted gleefully with his hands over his eyes.
“Oh God,” his mother jumped back and the baby lurched forward, his wobbly head guiding the way.
“Little Legs, you can’t jump out at me like that.”
His mother’s heart pounded in her chest and she felt sick thinking about the momentary lightness in her arms.
A wail rose from the baby in protest of the bumpy ride and his brother skittered off like a water bug shooting across a pond.
He was ready for the next game.