Under Attack

They know. And I'm under attack.

Yesterday when I got home from the doctor's office sporting my new black, grossly humungous cast, the boys acted like it was nothing out of the ordinary. My mother-in-law was nice enough to stick around for the rest of the day to help with the kids until Jimmy got home, making sure I didn't disobey orders to keep off my foot as much as humanly, or in my case, motherly, possible. The boys were great. There were no major meltdowns and I had it mapped out in my head exactly how I would maneuver when I was left alone. Even the week prior when I was in my boot and on crutches the boys were wonderful; I'd even go as far as saying little Jimmy was helpful.


But no. Not today. Today they knew that I was incapable of any type of ordinary walking. This time, the crutches were mandatory for Mommy and she couldn't break the rules, throw them to the ground and take control. Those two little boys schemed up in their room (I'm convinced of it) and today I was under full attack.

If I put my crutches down for a minute, little Jimmy would take one and put it clear across to the other end of the room. Jackson would army crawl all 20-something pounds of himself over to the other and begin a full chew attack on the bottom of the other. Once I carefully removed Jackson's mouth from the first crutch and moved him, I was hobbling - one foot, one crutch - to the other end of the house to retrieve my stolen item. Jimmy would find it all too funny and run to the other end of the house with it. Politely asking didn't change anything. Begging didn't persuade him. Not even bribing him with all the ice cream, candy and cookies in the world changed his mind. For the first time in their short existence they had the upper hand - and they knew it.

At breakfast, Jimmy decided that he would smear his cinnamon roll frosting all over his face and body. And for kicks, why not shove a bit of Eggo waffle down his pants? Jackson wasn't as daring with his actions, but did use his shirt as a bib and spit pears all over. I was left with messy kids who were in desperate need of a bath.

I literally crawled up the stairs to the bathroom, holding Jackson under one arm (he giggled the whole time), wanting nap time to come so I could find refuge in the quiet that accompanied their naps. Bath time was a game of "who could get Mommy's cast wet" and I was in tears when I pulled their soaking bodies from the tub. I put them side by side, naked tooshie to naked tooshie, and pleaded with them to please help Mommy out. Tears streamed down my face. Jimmy said sorry and knocked his forehead to mine in a peace offering. I gladly accepted. Jackson leaned down and began chewing his toes, which I took as an apology as well.

By noon, I was exhausted, but my post-bath meltdown worked. After their nap they were calm and back to their normal, loving states.

Four more weeks, I keep telling myself. Four more weeks.