The Voice

On Friday I made Adriana stand just outside the kitchen while I put something in the oven. She used to be so good about that, going over to stand on the carpet and waiting patiently when I had the oven door opened. Now, though, she likes to tease me, creeping just a little bit closer. I think she likes the reaction she gets, just like when she threatens to try to climb backwards onto a ladder from a play structure at the park and I come running. But on Friday, she stepped out of the kitchen when I asked, and I put the brownies in the oven, and then I turned to begin doing dishes at the sink. 

And then I heard the oven open. 

"Adriana, no. Stop. Hot," I said sharply, as I turned. She released the oven door and burst into tears as it banged shut. 

I picked her up, and quickly examined her hands. "Where does it hurt?" I asked, when everything appeared fine. She shook her head. "Adriana, did you burn your hands? Are your hands hot?" She cried more and leaned against me, burrowing her face into my neck. I tried checking her hands some more, looking for rising burn mark, like the one I had on my hand when I burned myself on an oven rack when I was eleven. There was nothing there, but I was about to put her hands under cold water anyhow, when something else occurred to me.

I am now in possession of The Voice. You know the one, right? The scary you'd-better-not-do-that voice. I don't think I raised my voice a huge amount when I heard the oven door open, but I had been harsh enough that I startled Adriana to tears. Of course, I also startled her enough that she didn't pull the oven all the way open and manage to burn herself. But I still felt bad for scaring my baby so badly.