Friday, January 7, 2011

I Repeat..The Enemy is On the Move.

Good Morning Readers,

Space, the final frontier….and my pleasingly substantial daughter ready to hurl herself into it like a half crazed kamikaze fighter pilate. Yes Readers, my babies are unapologetically and frighteningly on the move. Consequently, this has caused the air around here to virtually drip with a bitter mix of excitement and pure, unadulterated terror.

For all my seasoned moms out there, a tip of the cap to your diligence in keeping your children alive to this point, because I’m seriously frazzled.  Every mom has a spider sense, and mine has been oh so tingly lately.  Why, you ask? Well, my baby did try to base jump from my bed. Yeah, you read that right. As I was staring at my formally youthful face in the bathroom mirror yesterday, I heard a distinctive noise.... a coo; a beautiful, cutesy coo. This coo usually denotes when my chubby little angel baby of a daughter sees something she likes...or is getting ready to do something that she see as potentially fun or exciting. Bad. Very bad.
Springing down the hall and into my bedroom, I threw open the door and bore witness to a site which stopped my heart dead in its tracks. There, at the edge of my bed, stood my little baby girl. Arms and hands clinging tightly to the end of the bad post, she poised herself for what I could only assume, would a be a free fall for the ages.

Gasp! (I did this, not said it.) With a quick side step and wide angled scooping motion, I plucked my young daughter from certain peril and placed her firmly in her crib. This is the new napping negotiations.

The re-creation you've read here is only one of many hazardous situations my babies have found themselves in as of late. My son isn't quite as mobile, so that's a little relief (although, he does keep sitting up and falling backwards helplessly like a cheap sack of potatoes.)...but not much. My daughter has fallen off of, crawled into, and begun to take apart everything in site. My dreams of a Pottery Barn home/lifestyle are crumbling around me faster than one of those year-old crackers you find under your couch cushion  the day you decide to "really clean".   

Today's post is  just an introduction to what, I'm sure, will be a long series of events that will slowly chronicle my certain lapse into insanity by age 27. A very sad thought to begin 2011 with, indeed. Oh well. In the meantime, please feel free to weigh in with your own tragic stories of baby destruction. I'll laugh at them only to distract myself from the fact that my son's trying to bypass the plastic cover and pop his sticky little finger in another light socket.

Until Next Time Readers!