My mother was a child growing up with her child.
When I was three, she took me from the bath, wrapped me in a towel, and stood me on a flat surface while she reached for a brush. The surface was the short side of a twenty gallon fish tank, drying upended. I was a slight child, but my weight wasn’t nonexistent.
There was a shower of sparks, shards of reflective stars, and I slipped through the sharpness without a scratch. Panicked, she reached to pull me free.
All of her instincts were good. But, falling isn’t always the dangerous part.