Monday, March 21, 2011

Babies Don't Let You Play Dead

Morning Readers,

     I remember reading an article in Reader's Digest about bear attacks. Apparently, if a teeth-brandishing, two-ton Winnie the Pooh is about to rip your face off, you're supposed to drop to the ground, roll in a ball and and hope to the sweet Lord that it only takes a chunk out of your butt. I hope I never have to test that particular theory. Then again, I'm sure the sight of me peeing my pants would be sufficient to visually offend a bear into leaving me alone. And as much as I enjoy dwelling on stories of nature abruptly turning against mankind, the bear article popped into my head purely out of association. Being attacked, while in the fetal position, does wonders for the memory.

 
     "Would you like the Panda or the bee?" 

Husband held out my two stuffed-animal choices, leaving me to quickly debate whether insect or mammal offered the most comfort, when used as a pillow.

     "Bee please."

Too tired to care, I unceremoniously grabbed the bee, squashed it into a ball, and shoved it under my head. It'd been a really long day and a few minutes of relaxation were in order.
     Bedtime was at hand, but since putting the kids down while the sun (the main source of their power) was still up wasn't the wisest of choices, we opted, instead, to lay face-down on the floor, while they played with toys and used up the last of the energy.
     Husband had drifted off as soon as his eyes closed. But, as I had crossed into the plain where I'm a millionaire with a condo in South Beach, a winter home in Maine, and have a chest as perky as Strawberry Shortcake, I felt it.  The searing pain of having one's bangs ripped out in one, efficient chunk. My hands flew to my head. This was a good move, as it did double duty, blocking the plastic building block headed for my temple. I opened my eyes...slowly.

     "Ma? Maaaaa."

I carefully surveyed my attackers. Butch and Sundance were both staring at me with delighted looks on their faces. Baby hands poised, they hovered above me, ready to commence bludgeoning their mother, once she closed her eyes. Giving each of them a, "No" and a serious look, I stupidly closed my eyes once more.....and then the beating really started.
     For the next fifteen minutes, husband rested peacefully, while I was slapped in the face repeatedly. Good times. And in case you're wondering, rolling into a ball and covering your head only works on bears. Babies will slap you as long as your on ground level. And only if you're the mother, apparently.

Until Next Time Readers!