I’m not really sure what’s come over my youngest son (he’s 2-1/2), but maybe he’s just starting to reveal what it means to be in the “Terrible 2′s.” He’s harder than ever to please and has an annoying habit of running off (usually into a busy parking lot or some other peril).
Over the weekend, I went to the mall with a friend to buy some Crocs (it’s my new “thing”). Now, picture two moms with five kids ranging in age from 1-1/2 to 7…and then imagine how frazzled I look trying to negotiate with my son over those quarter gumball machines strategically placed at his eye level and at every turn. He’s screaming, “I want candy!!!” every two minutes.
I’m thinking, No, you can’t have candy before you’ve had breakfast. (pause in thinking) Oh, that’s right…you didn’t have breakfast because you were throwing that tantrum when everyone else was eating and now it’s 10:30 am. You haven’t eaten anything…no wonder you’re flipping out. I offer him a piece of gum if he promises to behave until we order him a delightfully healthy meal from the food court. He accepts my offer, which means I have less than five minutes to get the food. It takes 15 minutes…enough said.
Fast forward to the glorious moment when we are leaving the mall…on the way to the car, the kids stop to romp around in the fountains and then it’s time to go. Of course, everyone whines…my son is the loudest. Then suddenly he bolts toward the parking lot that is full of distracted drivers and a couple city buses. In a slight moment of panic, I reach out to grab him and find myself slipping on some gravel. (Yep…this is where it gets ugly.) In my attempt to avoid landing on my son, I throw my body over him and land with a THUD! on the gravel and concrete. (Yea..it hurt like heck and I was totally mortified because I’m sure I’ll show up on YouTube later this week.)
This Monday morning, I look like a mommy who has been at war. My elbows are scarred and bloodied, my knees are scraped and my butt adorns a huge purplish bruise that I’m sure my husband appreciates seeing as I get dressed. This isn’t exactly how I pictured motherhood when I read What to Expect When You’re Expecting years ago.
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