Once she's successfully laying on the bed, I stand perfectly still; you wouldn't even be able to see me breathe. I contemplate my escape, cursing the creaky hardwood. I am so close to victory, and yet defeat threatens me with every step. What I need is a fire-pole, so I can slide silently down to the main floor. I'd wear mittens so there'd be no squeaking of skin on metal, and I'd plop noiselessly into a pit of foam pieces. Yes, that would work. I have also imagined myself swinging out of the room on monkey bars, so as to avoid the perilous floors. A house made of marble would be equally adequate for enabling a soundless departure.
Instead, I slowly slide my foot across the ground, trying to detect any creaks before all my weight goes down, and reaching as far as I can to minimize the steps required. I try to hold myself up somewhat on the dresser as I slip out, then with hands pressed against the hallway walls as I near the stairs. One time she stirred and opened her eyes before I made it out of the bedroom and I instinctively ducked down out of sight. As I lay huddled on the floor, I thought how absurd it was that a three month old could incite such ridiculous behavior in a (more or less) sane adult. But instead of picking myself up off the ground, I slid out. That's right, laying flat on the floor and pushing myself backwards with my hands, I slithered out of the room. A new low (haha, pun).
There is one other thought that crosses my mind every time I lay her down. I inevitably get my arm pinned under her head, and sliding it out without waking her is challenging. That's when I remember an old commercial for the War Amps Champs about playing safe. A robot gets his arm sawed off and then clicks it back on. He says "I am Astar, a robot. I can put my arm back on; you can't. Play safe". Oh how I wish I had Astar's removable arms!