Physical Therapy

Tonight I ran away from the children.
With The Chief stashed as underarm cargo, I ran up to my room and closed the door. I needed a moment with just him, to remind the boy that I am the mama in his confusing life. He had gooey pants, so I cleaned him up, lathered him in good smelly lotion and let him roll clothes-free on my bedroom carpet on his favorite blankey.

How am I supposed to know that it is his favorite blankey? Alright, at this point all of his blankies are favorites. I am waiting for the day when there is a clear winner. I have some suspicions, some hopes of my own. But until that day arrives, good luck to all blankies involved.

The Chief and I have this thing where I smother him in smooches and he lifts his eyebrows like a fork lift, throws his head back and baby chuckles. I'd like to thank the person responsible for inventing babies. Genius.

It wasn't five minutes before children flooded our we party.

Ollie who has a chemical dependence on bouncing and barging did both. Just as I was about to roll on my side he attacked me with his legs while using his arms to block my ability to protect the unsuspecting (not to mention exposed) baby. His high-pitched laugh pierced the sound frequencies entering into my ears. When this happens, as it does ALL THE TIME, I abandon all hope of a quiet life and give into the violence. I am nothing but a small victim in a big world.

(Did you just read that last paragraph? I am a writing champ tonight! Dynamite!)

Just as I was detaining Oliver while singing, "It's a Jolly Holiday with Ollie!" (Try it.) Jane sulked in next crying the inhumanity of not being able to reach a bowl in Retro Kitchen. I asked what she wanted to fill in the bowl. I was answered while she attempted to roll my head like cookie dough with her feet. Jane does everything with her feet. Chup always asks before eating anything in this house, "Did Jane's feet touch this?"

"Come on Court-ney. I want a bowl for Bumpers!" She always pronounces Courtney with two distinct syllables. I don't know if it is her freshly cut bangs or what, but Jane these days has a firm grip on my soft spot. Her total lack of patience, demand for a scheduled life (not me, not me) and propensity to eat clementines by the orchard have really become one of my favorite parts about my life. Another thing I like about Jane? She gives everything in her life a nickname deriving from her descriptions. Our basement stairs are the "Clickedy-Clacks" for the tacky sound they make when you descend. Therefore, irresistible.

Then Gigs. He who grunts. He who insisted on taking a bath in the kitchen sink after watching The Chief soak there for a period of time. He who loves the baby and, maybe even more, has a firm adoration of my milk-producing chest. (Seems to be a theme around here.) He who is so well-cared for by Lucy and Uncle Ric. He who came in for his nightly smother.

I tried to pry them off one at a time with my pretended mean mom routine. But they cared not. They stayed to completely bulldoze my escapism. I was trapped. With no more ammo left for the fending-off, I completely indulged them. Wrestled with Ollie, bear hugged Jane and poked Gigs repeatedly in the stomach for the Pillsbury effect.

Somehow in the chaos, my thoughts turned to the mama in their confusing life. Everyday she awakes to a full schedule of rehabilitation. There are manipulatives to help her fingers move, techniques for her road to walking again and routine exercises to build back her strength. All to be able to do this. To interact with her little creatures. To roll, wrap, hold, and bounce.

Until then, I shall resume my position as part-time dummy bag. I can take the impact. Plus, I think it's helping me get back in shape. There are benefits to this overly demanding lifestyle.

All the same, God speed sister. God speed.

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