Damage Control

It is a good thing babies are resilient.  Within just a short period of time, Owen has landed in the ER with an injury due to a faulty seat latch in the van, and Connor has landed, after a long, noisy fall, at the bottom of the basement stairs.  Somehow he did not end up with a mark on him...although how he managed it I will never know.  We heard him hit every step on the way down.  Both incidents made my heart stop, and I think I cried more than the babies.  I know it took me much longer than them to get over it...both were running and causing mischief within an hour after each incident.  I think I was still shaking.

I always joked about these boys giving me a heart attack before age 35...I think they took it seriously.  On top of the actual traumatic events, there are the daily near-traumatic events that leave me needing "quiet time" and a glass of wine in the evening.  My husband has begun to recognize the signs that I am ready for bedtime:  the constant glances at the clock, sometimes with narrowed eyes (thinking that if I stare hard enough, I can use the power of the Force to speed up time,) the drumming of the fingers on the table, my speech patterns becoming quicker, higher pitched, and, at times, quite shaky, and the ever present heavy sigh.  After a long day of pulling babies off of tables, stools, entertainment centers and chairs...after rescuing the cat, the television, Irelynn's beloved Froggy, and my new cell phone from immediate peril...and cleaning up milk, (insert food served at each mealtime,) cat fur from a frazzled cat, my tupperware and legos....I am mentally and physically exhausted.  My husband thinks I am insane for instantly cleaning up after every little thing anymore...but I know that if I don't...it will build up throughout the day into a massive monster that I will have to battle before bed.  And I'd much rather drink my wine than battle the monster...I'd end up putting him off until the morning, and then he'd ruin my day.  So, I follow the children around with a broom and a washcloth, like the uncle I used to make fun of for obsessively cleaning. 

Some day, they will all be older and in school.  As I have already discovered with my teens, that doesn't mean life gets easier...BUT....I will have those precious few hours while they are at school to rest.  I'm sure I'll still want a glass of wine in the evening...but by then I can pretend that it's because I'm sophisticated, not stressed.  Just like I can pretend that the gray hair makes me look distiguished...