Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Float Like a Butterfly, Sting Like a Baby Foot

Morning Readers,

     Today I crouch like tiger. Hide like dragon. I've decided that brushing up on my boxing, kung fu and any additional self-defense techniques I can get my hands on is a stupendous idea. Why? Well, let's see. In the past two days, I've narrowly avoided a black eye, broken cheek bones and three crushing blows to the jugular. I blame the nurses; They're medical professionals after all. When they excitedly handed me the twins and watched us strap them into the car seats, one of them should've taken me aside and said something like this.

"Mrs. Kellerman."


"Beware of the right of passing. When the sun has set three-hundred times and the swallows have carried nine coconuts over the white mountains, there will come a day when the baby children will grow large like chimp. Watch for the flying fists of fury. Your life may be in danger."

At which point, the secret medallion should've been slipped into my palm and the sacred prayer of protection whispered over my forehead. But she didn't. Instead, I was handed my "You look sane enough to raise a child" papers, ushered into my car and waived off.
     The swallows have flown, the sun set, my babies now huge. Where my changing table used to be taken up by people the size of letter envelopes, the envelopes have been replaced by giant sacks of flour, flour that's determined that it wants to pummel me to death..
    Butch and Sundance have decided that they don't particularly like being held against their will while their nether-regions are changed. And their main objective is to punch the the "mean old sheriff" in the face. I can't say I blame them, but that still didn't prepare me for the first time a baby heel clipped me in the temple or when I was almost blinded by five toes to the eye.
     Beings that small don't respond to logic or reason...mainly because they can't talk yet. Instead, I'm forced to contain my frustration to inner dialogue:

If you could just hold still I could.....damn it child! Stop wiggling, for the love of all that's good and holy! Oh for crying out loud! Lord? Lord, are you there? Good. Question....Why did you give me spider monkeys instead of children?! Because my son is climbing the walls, naked. Why won't this kid just. lay. still? Why aren't diapers and Prozac packaged together? Anyone? Anyone?

     Ducking, rolling and trying to throw themselves, ass over teakettle, off the table, I find my self not only having to bob and weave to avoid injury, but also hosting frequent heart attacks and the urge to wander down the street, barefoot, gin bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other, and a giant sign on my back proclaiming to the world "Diaper Shocked: Spare a quarter or some Ramen?  ".
     But I can't. Like parents all over the world, I must keep fighting the good fight and continue strapping diapers on children who don't want them. I'm interested to know, Readers, is this happening to anyone else? Feel free to weigh in.

Until Next Time Readers!