Gushing

I've always wondered how many cases there have been of toddlers killing their mothers because they snapped their mom's necks while jumping on them during a crazy toddler-derived acrobatics stunt.  I know these are morbid thoughts, but it has to have happened, right?  I'm too afraid to Google it.  But it's a real thought that enters my mind each time my 3-year old ruffian launches his body off the couch and onto me, usually unsuspecting, while I'm relaxing on the floor.

Snap!

As this year has progressed and 1-yr old Tater's agility has developed from learning to walk, to learning to run, to now mastering how to climb (but not how to get down), I've been preparing myself for the inevitable.

He is GOING TO GET HURT one day.  And then he'll get hurt again.  Just like his brother.

But as of today, he hasn't hurt himself enough to leave a mark.  So I continue to brace myself, knowing it's gonna happen.  Little did I know, I should have been looking out for my own ass instead!

It was all so innocent:  3-year old Brother was asleep on the couch, so Tater and I were sharing vanilla and chocolate chip ice cream in a cup together on the floor.  We were spending our special 1:1 time together, just the two of us, quiet, the birds were chirping, there were bunnies in the meadow, and rainbows were forming in the skies... Until the little bastard took the heavy-ass spoon and BASHED the fuck out of my eyebrow bone to unleash the most emotional pain that seemingly came out of nowhere.   It unleashed a deep-seeded depression as I cowled into a cocoon shape and screamed, "Leave me alone!" and started to cry out loud like a 5-year old girl.  For a few seconds, I may have stunned Tater, but at some point he decided I was either a) taking too long in my self misery, or b) I was fine and this was a game, because the then threw himself on top of the noisy cocoon and tried to climb it.

I braced myself, still crying; still hiding my face from the little terrorist.  I composed myself and wiped the tears from my face, not knowing yet that I was also wiping blood.  Other than the sleeping 3-year old, the dog and the terrorist, I was alone.  My husband wasn't there.  My husband is NEVER there!  I tried to be strong, but Tater had hit me where it hurt most both literally and figuratively.  The blow had brought out a sadness to which my husband was already condemned as the root cause.  I love the hubs, but hate that he's not around the way I need and expect in a marriage.  I needed him there at that moment - and he wasn't.  And so, the deep-seeded anguish came gushing out (along with blood) with one blow to the head with a spoon.  I probably cried on an off for the next couple of hours,  in between playing airplane and tickles. Feeling so alone.

I try to always have a brave face in front of my kids, but I'm only human.  I remember a few times in my childhood where my mother lost her composure (she never hit us) and it really made me uncomfortable.  I felt a mixture of sadness, pity, and fault to see my mother that way.  Don't get me wrong.  She cried a lot; she's a crier.  But there were only a couple of times where she really, REALLY cried.  Made me wonder as a kid if she regretted motherhood (but she didn't; she was just having a moment and was entitled to it).  I don't want to put my kids through that though.  I don't want them to think it's their fault.  It's not.

So now my brow is healing, and hopefully so will the depression one day.  In all my years of life, I've always been a pacifist and I don't think anyone has ever beat my ass before (I think I would've remembered unless I've implemented selective memory).  Leave it up to a 1-year old to take the title!  Just you wait Tater.

Karma.

Any day now.

Brace yourself - Shirley