I have a swollen nose and can’t tell if those dark lines under my eyes are dark circles or black eyes.
Last week I was head-butted by a toddler trying to get a better view of Papa in the iPad. Homeboy made CONTACT; it was a direct hit to my nose. I heard a crack. I saw stars. I tasted blood. I felt as though I’d just received a full body blow from one of the boys’ beloved Big Trucks.
As GrammaJ and Papa heard the commotion alongside a stellar view of our ceiling (I dropped that gadget right quick), blood began gushing. From my newfound fetal position on the couch, I mumbled toward the technology that we had to go. I was relatively certain I’d just been decapitated.
“Mommy?” asked Search.
“Uh oh,” acknowledged Destroy.
I went and found the frozen corn. I doubt it’s edible any longer – it’s spent time on Destroy’s mauled cheek and Search’s giant goose egg. In any case, said frozen vegetables and the consecutive bottles of red pinot were totally medicinal.
The next morning was painful. Literally.
It’s a little talked about concept – motherhood is a contact sport. Not unlike like Fight Club.
(And I’m not even talking about having your body literally sliced open as your insides are set aside as the tiny parasites are removed and shuttled down the hall, breaking your heart in the process.)
I am going to break from protocol here. And break from the first rule of Fight Club (Let’s keep this just between us, okay? But that’s totally what it is.)
The responses came flooding in. I was not alone. Momma Be Thy Name has agreed to brew the (good) coffee for the Toddler Abuse Support Group.
I wholeheartedly agree. I also maintain this is why we write this all down. (Surprise! Not just for your viewing pleasure. Ok, a little for your viewing pleasure.)
But for the time being – my nose? Totally broken.