Purple puddles

Well, it has finally happened, that rite of passage all mothers must undergo.  (It does happen to everyone, right?)  One of my children has fallen into the fountain at the mall.  You know, the one with the plants around it, strategically placed next to the winding stairs, the lovely view from which we always bypass because I am not Superwoman enough to drag a stroller up them.

It was funny, because as we passed the fountain outside the Riverwalk in New Orleans, (Grandma, Uncle John, the girls, and I) Grandma was explaining to Lucy that this wasn’t like the fountain she played in in Florida, and that we couldn’t go play in it.  When we got inside, Lucy wanted to go see the other fountain, so we swerved around an elderly man and his “Information” table, and went up to the little square tiled pond.

As she always did when my brother and I were little, but as I have never yet done as a parent myself, my mom offered Lucy pennies to throw in the fountain.  This was just the distraction needed.  Lucy readily agreed, and as I looked away and Mom went to dig her purse out of the stroller, Lucy tried to lean on the rope barrier (what are those things called?!) that was put up, apparently, to keep people from getting to close to and/or in this little fountain.

Little did Lucy know that the rope barrier was not attached in any way to the ground, or anything else solid.  First the nearest pole went in with a splash, which caught our attention so that I turned just in time to see Lucy lose her balance and hop from the side of the pool into it, landing (miraculously) on her feet, in water right up to the edge of her dress.

She was shocked, to say the least.  I leaned over and lifted her out, thankfully only wet on her shoes and about an inch up her favorite purple “ballerina” dress.  And, more thankfully, she was not screaming.  I righted the rope line, which was now soggy and dripping, and noted the puddle Lucy was making on the floor.  (Fortunately, she had talked me into letting her wear pink sandals instead of tennis shoes and socks.)  Mom proceeded to give her the pennies, all of which she threw in, and one of which she clanged off the side of the potted plant, and we moved on in search of lunch.

The “Information” man, who was less than five feet away, never even turned around.

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