Mom? Or Superhero?
We were JUST talking about this.
Picture if you will: a dozen or so brightly colored rubbery plastic ponies of varying sizes. All with shimmery hair and cutesy tattoos on their hindquarters, scattered throughout the main thoroughfare between kitchen and family room. They have been subjects of a game called "Stuff the Ponies in the Barbie Volkswagens," so the site actually looks like Godzilla's trophy wife went all DWI on the Miniature Pony Farm and left the scene.
The command had been given to stable the ponies and impound the cars, but the cleanup crew was distracted by the salty, cheesy goodness of snacktime. I let it slide, as there were no new toys being added to the disaster. A second command was issued when it looked like snacktime was over, but I was informed that we were still eating and again, I let it slide.
Then, visiting baby #3 woke up. She has a new game called "Zero to 130 in .3 seconds," or "I Have Been Awake For .5 Seconds It Must Be Time To Scream For Food." One of my own is down with a fever, so in an effort to stifle the screaming and let the hot one keep sleeping, I assembled a bottle in record time. Swooping the cryer out of the swing, balancing baby in one arm and clutching bottle in the other, I dashed through the kitchen and onto the Farm.
Those ponies held their own. They had endured enough tragedy for the day, they were NOT going down without a fight. My size 11s were no match.
Down I went. Down baby went. Down bottle went.
The only thing to actually hit the tile, however, were my knees, and apparently the tops of my feet. And boy, did they hit the tile. They hit the tile with the force of a 30-year-old, 5-foot-7 woman unable to do anything to break the fall because she is holding someone else's baby.
It felt like one of those car ads where they wreck the car in slow motion and show you how everything inside was kept safe. My mommy instinct helped my body to act as shock absorber and though I couldn't breathe from the pain, the baby didn't seem to realize anything had happened.
But I, oh, I am going to be in some pain.
Picture if you will: a dozen or so brightly colored rubbery plastic ponies of varying sizes. All with shimmery hair and cutesy tattoos on their hindquarters, scattered throughout the main thoroughfare between kitchen and family room. They have been subjects of a game called "Stuff the Ponies in the Barbie Volkswagens," so the site actually looks like Godzilla's trophy wife went all DWI on the Miniature Pony Farm and left the scene.
The command had been given to stable the ponies and impound the cars, but the cleanup crew was distracted by the salty, cheesy goodness of snacktime. I let it slide, as there were no new toys being added to the disaster. A second command was issued when it looked like snacktime was over, but I was informed that we were still eating and again, I let it slide.
Then, visiting baby #3 woke up. She has a new game called "Zero to 130 in .3 seconds," or "I Have Been Awake For .5 Seconds It Must Be Time To Scream For Food." One of my own is down with a fever, so in an effort to stifle the screaming and let the hot one keep sleeping, I assembled a bottle in record time. Swooping the cryer out of the swing, balancing baby in one arm and clutching bottle in the other, I dashed through the kitchen and onto the Farm.
Those ponies held their own. They had endured enough tragedy for the day, they were NOT going down without a fight. My size 11s were no match.
Down I went. Down baby went. Down bottle went.
The only thing to actually hit the tile, however, were my knees, and apparently the tops of my feet. And boy, did they hit the tile. They hit the tile with the force of a 30-year-old, 5-foot-7 woman unable to do anything to break the fall because she is holding someone else's baby.
It felt like one of those car ads where they wreck the car in slow motion and show you how everything inside was kept safe. My mommy instinct helped my body to act as shock absorber and though I couldn't breathe from the pain, the baby didn't seem to realize anything had happened.
But I, oh, I am going to be in some pain.
Comments
3 months old! That must have been terrifying! That was pre-cast, right? I don't know how you were brave enough to carry him anywhere for that period of time!