Not that I am meaning to brag or anything- but every morning after dropping Holden off at school, I exercise. I am VERY into exercise. Being in shape is super important to me. I like getting my heart rate up and burning off the fat!
|Let’s get physical, people!|
Was any of that convincing? Probably not. The truth is that I try to exercise 4 days out of the week. This working out consists of some pilates and core bullshit and running circles around the downstairs (yes, the same circles my kids get put in perpetual time outs for) until I’m huffing and puffing an cursing myself for all the delicious baked goods and piles of gravy I inhaled over the holidays. There is nothing about it that I like. Well, I mean I like being under the impression that I’m working the weight I gained back off- but who really knows with that. Really though, I can’t stand exercise. It doesn’t invigorate me, or make me feel healthier- and I really really really hate sweat. It’s gross. I know it’s good, but it’s gross. Forever I find myself standing in the living room blotting myself off and being pissy about how I have epic amounts of boob sweat but no boobs. That just ain’t right.
Once I complete this mockery of exercise I perform (maybe) 4 days a week- I walk my nasty ass up to the upstairs bathroom where I proceed to peel off the “I don’t have boobs but they sure can sweat” clothes and then I rinse myself off. Usually with cold water because it takes way too long to get the water to the scalding temperature I so love, and there’s no way I’m standing upstairs naked, covered in non-boob boob sweat, freezing, waiting for water to get hot.
WHY am I telling you all of this? So that you will understand what position I was in (don’t be dirty. I know what you’re thinking. Cut that shit out) when absolute mayhem erupted today.
Yes. Me- naked. Water running. Gross and sweaty. I hope your visual looks better than I actually did (ba dum tsss!) I had asked Parker to join me upstairs because when I change out of work out clothes, I get him dressed. What?? It’s only 9:30am.
He had given me the usual “But I wanna play!” excuse, and being that all I wanted to do was to get washed off, I didn’t even bother arguing and forcing his pointy-cheeked ass up the stairs.
So as I’m standing there in the bathroom (yes, still naked) I hear thump-thump-thump. Being that I don’t even bother shutting bathroom doors anymore and the bathroom is right at the top of the stairs- I peered around the open door frame and saw Parker and the dog making their way up toward me. Yay.
Now- these kinds of things happen in the blink of an eye, so truly I have no fucking clue what went wrong once Parker got to the top of the stairs- all I know is that he went flying into the door frame face first. I mean, I could guess that it was his gigantic dome throwing him off balance or maybe the dog cut him off and either one is plausible because they happen all the time- but it happened so quickly that all I saw was a swoosh, heard a bam- and then there was a kid on the floor screeching.
I don’t call these moments “defining” moments of parenthood- but they are definitely moments where we throw all cares aside to get to our child’s aide. Doesn’t matter what we were doing. Or… y’know… wearing.
So, there’s me. Butt ass naked and gross. Water running. Pouncing over to Parker to assess the situation. I swore with a smack like that followed with a scream like that- there was going to be blood. Lots and lots of blood. Blood makes me pukey. I was totally prepared to do the “typical woman” thing and shriek at the side of open wound.
That’s okay, we can do this; just as long as he’s okay.
I searched high and low and although the child told me his nose hurt- it wasn’t even red. There was no mouth blood (why is there ALWAYS mouth blood) or red marks that would soon turn purple. Nothing.
Thirty seconds later he’s trotting down the hallway with the dog and then they’re both in my bed playing happily.
What in the? Naked me was perplexed. At this point I shouldn’t be though- this kind of shit always happens with the little ones. Even if there is blood, even if you could swear it was just the most heinous sound you’ve ever heard that caused the blood- give it a few minutes and it’s like nothing ever happened.
|Amirite or amirite??|
It always brings up one question in my mind: What in the hell are kids made of?
Seriously. I need to know. I am 1,000% positive if I took a flying face plant into a door frame, I’d need an ambulance and reconstructive surgery. If I fell HALF of the times kids with the force they do, I’m pretty sure I would get in my bed, put on a full body cast, and never leave it; even then I’d be worried an anvil was going to fall on my head.
There would be no boo-hooing for 2 minutes and then skipping off to happily play with toys, completely disregarding a busted lip or a scraped knee or a goose-egg on my head . There would be multiple broken bones, stitches, surgery, traction, and possibly therapy involved. Both physical and mental.
Don’t come at me with your logic and rational thoughts and tell me “the bigger they are, the harder they fall”– cause when you mix in these “accidents” with what exactly mommy or daddy is doing when they happen (and what they are doing is usually important or embarrassing)… Well, I sniff a conspiracy.
I’m onto you, children of earth!! ONTO YOU!
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Hard pass from me pic.twitter.com/VayvW1eopK
I've gotten to the point where I'd let my kids summon a demon with a Ouija board before I'd let them play Monopoly together again.
Parenthood is when you start counting the minutes to bed time before 11am.
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