The little dears.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Being a mom hurts--physically. I'm not even talking about labor, here. I'm referring to the tiny, whole fist pinches on the back of the arm and the head-butting my nose. My pods love to stand on my bare feet (with their shoes on) and twist the thin skin there. Of course, any adult laying on the ground is asking, even pleading for a knee in the gut as the children come running to play on the jungle gym laying there. Daily, I am struck by a wayward ball or pummeled by tantrum-throwing fists. There are the tiny toys that are left on the ground meant for impaling feet and there are cabinet doors left open for the Mothership to bruise her shins and forehead. When the baby has a foreign object in her mouth, who has to face the gauntlet of razor sharp teeth to remove it? Me. Elbows in the breasts, tiny fingernails on the neck, curious fingers in the nose and the careful way they peel my eyelids open to check to see if I am really asleep are all painful reminders that I have a lot of children.