Last week was a little brutal. I don't remember the first half, Wednesday was a struggle, and Thursday I got to see croup and asthma in action. I don't really feel the need to blog the details because I doubt that I am soon to forget the look on his face as he turned blue and looked to me to explain why it was so hard to breathe. I am a total wuss when it comes to my kids, but especially Porkchop. Like most Mama's and their sons, our relationship is complicated. I love him to pieces, especially when he puts me in a headlock to give me kisses with his "chock-chip" stained face, but there are days I'm going to stick him on a raft and send him down the river.
I tried to take them all to Music Makers last week and he was so naughty. I don't know if it was because he was at the church in the middle of the week, or what, but he was on strike. "Hell no! I won't go! "Hell no! I won't go!" Honestly, just sit down, sing the little ditties and listen to the story. No. In fact, if he could have flipped them all off, he would have. He'd rather throw rocks, or smash and bash something. There's no McQueen cars, rocks, or bikes? Not interested then, thanks. So, now we're never leaving the house again and he's grounded to the sandbox and I'm super proud of myself for not beating him and then the next day he turns blue and we go to Urgent Care. That night I climb in bed next to him and cuddle my baby and fall asleep next to him all night. Yesterday I'm the phone with my sister when Porkchop comes in with blood all over his hands and face. "Um, I gotta call you back. I need to find out where he's bleeding from."
"Do you have an owie?" "I dunno." But with him, it sounds like one word. "I-oh-no" and he shrugs his shoulders. No tears, just blood. So I wash his hands and face and yup, two visible slices across his thumb. "Show Mommy how you got the owie?" And he pulls me into my bedroom where he'd climbed up and gotten the utility knife I'd used earlier and left most definitely out of reach. Ay ya yay.
In a space of five minutes he dropped my cell phone into the sink where they were growing one of those "Watch me grow 10x my size!" mold factories from Valentine's Day and then dumped a full box of sewing pins onto the dining rug. It's not like he was unattended either. Both times I was standing right there in the path of destruction. To his credit he did reach for the towel and immediately begin talking me down while drying it off as best he could. "It okay Mommy-mommy. Da phone be oh-kay." He then announces that he "Be weady for my nap Mommy-mommy. You get my hot bah-bah and come sweep wit me." I obediently cross the kitchen to the fridge, fill a sippy with milk, and put in 45 seconds on the microwave. Not 30, not 42. He'll hand it back and slowly repeat, "I saaaaaaid a HOT bah-bah" like I didn't understand him the first time. Who is this kid?
Mi Esposo just laughs and kind of shakes his head. Scrunch announced the other night that "If Erick dies I will really miss him." "You will?", I asked. "Yup. It's a long time till the Resurrection." Oh, laws.
Crap! I was going somewhere with these stories, but I just heard, "I'm very disappointed in you Mister!" from the other room. This could mean anything from "how dare you be fed up playing the puppy or the dentist in our game of house" to he just set the fringe on my new bedspread on fire.
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